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I 

THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

FRANK L. PACKARD 




























By FRANK L. PACKARD 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 
JIMMIE DALE AND THE PHANTOM 
CLUE 

DOORS OF THE NIGHT 
PAWNED 

THE WHITE MOLL 
FROM NOW ON 
THE NIGHT OPERATOR 
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIM¬ 
MIE DALE 

THE ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE DALE 
THE WIRE DEVILS 
THE SIN THAT WAS HIS 
THE BELOVED TRAITOR 
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 
THE MIRACLE MAN 


NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 








THE FOUR 
STRAGGLERS 

BY 

FRANK L. PACKARD 

if 


> ■> 

■j i 






NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


















COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 1 




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THE FOUR STRAGGLERS. II 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE: The Four of Them .... 9 

BOOK I: SHADOW VARNE 

CHAPTER 

I Three Years Later.19 

II An Iron in the Fire.33 

III Three of Them.45 

IV Gold Plate.55 

V “Dear Guardy”.72 

VI The Writing on the Wall .... 84. 

j 

BOOK II: THE ISLE OF PREY 

I The Spell of the Moonbeams . . . 105 

II The Voice in the Night . . . • . .116 

III The Mad Millionaire.139 

IV The Unknown.155 

V The Gutter-Snipe.174 

VI The Man in the Mask.181 

VII The Fight.196 

VIII The Message.212 

BOOK III: THE PENALTY 

I The White Shirt Sleeve.227 

II The Bronze Key.241 

III The Warp and the Woof .... 263 

IV The Time-Lock of the Sea .... 285 




















BOOK I: Shadow Varne 






PROLOGUE: The Four of Them 

















„* 








THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


PROLOGUE 

THE FOUR OF THEM 

T HE crash of guns. A flare across the heavens. 
Battle. Dismay. Death. A night of chaos. 

And four men in a thicket. 

One of them spoke: 

“A bloody Hun prison, that’s us! My Gawd! 
Where are we?” 

Another answered caustically: 

“Monsieur, we are lost—and very tired.” 

A third man laughed. The laugh was short. 

“A Frenchman! Where in hell did you come 
from?” 

“Where you and the rest of us came from.” The 
Frenchman’s voice was polished; his English faultless. 
“We come from the tickling of the German bayonets.” 
The first man elaborated the statement gratuitously: 
“I don’t know about you ’uns; but our crowd was 
done in good and proper two days ago. Gawd! ain’t 
there no end to ’em? Millions! And us running! 
What I says is let ’em have the blinking channel ports, 
and lets us clear out. I wasn’t noways in favour of 
mussing up in this when the bleeding parliament says 
up and at ’em in the beginning, leastways nothing ex¬ 
cept the navy.” 


9 


10 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


“Drafted, I take it?” observed the third man coolly. 

There was no answer. 

The fourth man said nothing. 

There was a whir in the air . . . closer . . . 
closer; a roar that surged at the ear drums; a terrific 
crash near at hand; a tremble of the earth like a shud¬ 
dering sob. 

The first man echoed the sob: 

“Carry on! Carry on! I can’t carry on. Not for 
hours. I’ve been running for two days. I can’t even 
sleep. My Gawd!” 

“No good of carrying on for a bit,” snapped the 
third man. “There’s no place to carry on to. They 
seem to be all around us.” 

“That’s the first one that’s come near us,” said the 
Frenchman. “Maybe it’s only—what do you call it? 
—a straggler.” 

“Like us,” said the third man. 

A flare, afar off, hung and dropped. Nebulous, 
ghostlike, a faint shimmer lay upon the thicket. It 
endured for but a moment. Three men, huddled 
against the tree trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled 
men, stared into each others’ faces. A fourth man 
lay outstretched, motionless, at full length upon the 
ground, as though he were asleep or dead; his face 
was hidden because it was pillowed on the earth. 

“Well, I’m damned!” said the third man, and 
whistled softly under his breath. 

“Monsieur means by that?” inquired the Frenchman 
politely. 

“Means?” repeated the third man. “Oh, yes! I 
mean it’s queer. Half an hour ago we were each a 
separate bit of driftwood tossed about out there, and 


THE FOUR OF THEM 


ii 


now here we are blown together from the four winds 
and linked up as close to each other by a common 
stake—our lives—as ever men could be. I say it’s 
queer.” 

He lifted his rifle, and, feeling out, prodded once 
or twice with the butt. It made a dull, thudding 
sound. 

“What are you doing?” asked the Frenchman. 

“Giving first aid to Number Four,” said the third 
man grimly. “He’s done in, I fancy. I’m not sure 
but he’s the luckiest one of the lot.” 

“You’re bloody well right, he is!” gulped the first 
man. “I wouldn’t mind being dead, if it was all over, 
and I was dead. It’s the dying and the thinking about 
it I can’t stick.” 

“I can’t see anything queer about it.” The French¬ 
man was judicial; he reverted to the third man’s re¬ 
mark as though no interruption had occurred in his 
train of thought. “We all knew it was coming, this 
last big—what do you call it?—push of the Boche. It 
has come. It is gigantic. It is tremendous. A tidal 
wave. Everything has gone down before it; units all 
broken up, mingled one with another, a melee. It has 
been sauve qui pent for thousands like us who never 
saw each other before, who did not even know each 
other existed. I see nothing queer in it that some 
of us, though knowing nothing of each other, yet 
having the same single purpose, rest if only for a 
moment, shelter if only for a moment, should have 
come together here. To me it is not queer.” 

“Well, perhaps, you’re right,” said the third man. 
“Perhaps adventitious would have been better than 
queer.” 


12 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


“Nor adventitious,” dissented the Frenchman. 
“Since we have been nothing to each other in the 
past, and since our meeting now offers us collectively 
no better chance of safety or escape than we individu¬ 
ally had before, there is nothing adventitious about 
it.” 

“Perhaps again I am wrong.” There was a curious 
drawl in the third man’s voice now. “In fact, I will 
admit it. It is neither queer nor adventitious. It is 
quite—oh, quite!—beyond that. It can only be due 
to the considered machinations of the devil on his 
throne in the pit of hell having his bit of a fling at us 
—and a laugh!” 

“You’re bloody well right!” mumbled the first man. 

“Damn!” said the Frenchman with asperity. “I 
don’t understand you at all.” 

The third man laughed softly. 

“Well, I don’t know how else to explain it, then,” 
he said. “The last time we—” 

“The last time!” interrupted the Frenchman. “I 
did not get a very good look at you when that flare 
went up, I’ll admit; but enough so that I would swear 
I had never seen you before.” 

“Quite so!” acknowledged the third man. 

“Gawd!” whimpered the first man. “Look at that! 
Listen to that!” 

A light, lurid, intense for miles around opened \he 
darkness—and died out. An explosion rocked the 
earth. 

“Ammunition dump!” said the Frenchman. “I’m 
sure of it now. I’ve never seen any of you before.” 

The third man now sat with his rifle across his 
knees. 


THE FOUR OF THEM 


i3 

The fourth man had not moved from his original 
position. 

“I thought you were officers, blimy if I didn’t, from 
the way you talked,” said the first man. “Just a blink¬ 
ing Tommy and a blinking Poilu!” 

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchman, and there was a 
challenge in his voice, “I never forget a face.” 

“Nor I,” said the third man quietly. “Nor other 
things; things that happened a bit back—after they 
put the draft into England, but before they called up 
the older classes. I don’t know just how they worked 
it over here—that is, how some of them kept out of 
it as long as they did.” 

“Godam!” snarled the Frenchman. “Monsieur, 
you go too far! And—monsieur appears to have a 
sense of humour peculiarly his own—perhaps mon¬ 
sieur will be good enough to explain what he is laugh¬ 
ing at?” 

“With pleasure,” said the third man calmly. “I was 
laughing at the recollection of a night, not like this 
one, though there’s a certain analogy to it for all that, 
when an attack was made on—a strong box in a West 
End residence in London. Lord Seeton’s, to be pre¬ 
cise.” 

The first man stirred. He seemed to be groping 
around him where he sat. 

“Foolish days! Perverted patriotism!” said the 
third man. “The family jewels, the hereditary treas¬ 
ures, gathered together to be offered on the altar of 
England’s need! Fancy! But it was being done, 
you know. Rather! Only in this case the papers 
got hold of it and played it up a bit as a wonderful 
example, and that’s how three men, none of whom 


14 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

had anything to do with the others, got hold of it 
too—no, I’m wrong there. Lord Seeton’s valet natu¬ 
rally had inside information.” 

“Blimy!” rasped the first man suddenly. “A copper 
in khaki! That s what! A bloody, sneaking swine!” 

It was inky black in the thicket. The third man’s 
voice cut through the blackness like a knife. 

You put that gun down! I’ll do all the gun han¬ 
dling there’s going to be done. Drop it!” 

A snarl answered him—a snarl, and the rattle of 
an object falling to the ground. 

“There were three of them,” said the third man 
composedly. “The valet, who hadn’t reached his class 
in the draft; a frenchman, who spoke marvellous Eng¬ 
lish, which is perhaps after all the reason why he had 

not yet, at that time, served in France; and—and some ' 
one else.” 

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchman silkily, “you be- 
come interesting.” 

“The curious part of it is,” said the third man, “that 
each of them in turn got the swag, and each of them 
could have got away with it with hardly any doing 
at all, if it hadn’t been that in turn each one chivied 
the other. The Frenchman took Tt from the valet, as 
the valet, stuffed like a pouter pigeon with diamonds 
and brooches and pendants and little odds and ends 
like that, was on his way to a certain pinch-faced 
fence named Konitsky in a slimy bit of neighbourhood 
in the East End; the Frenchman, who was an English - 
man in France, took the swag to a strange little place 
in a strange little street, not far from the bank of the 
Seme, the place of one Pere Mouche, a place that in 
times of great stress also became the shelter and home 


THE FOUR OF THEM 


15 

of this same Frenchman, who—shall I say?—I believe 
is outstandingly entitled to the honour of having raised 
his profession to a degree of art unapproached by any 
of his confreres in France to-day.” 

“Sacre nom!” said the Frenchman with a gasp. 
“There is only one Englishman who knew that, and 
I thought he was dead. An Englishman beside whom 
the Frenchman you speak of is not to be compared. 
(You are—” 

“I haven’t mentioned any names,” said the third 
man smoothly. “Why should you ?” 

“You are right,” said the Frenchman. “Perhaps 
we have already said too much. There is a fourth 
here.” 

“No,” said the third man. “I had not forgotten 
him.” He toyed with the rifle on his knee. “But I 
had thought perhaps you would have recognised the 
valet’s face.” 

“Strike me pink!” muttered the first man. “So 
Frenchy’s the blighter that did me in, was he!” 

“It i& the uniform, and the dirt perhaps, and the 
very poor light,” said the Frenchman apologetically. 
“But you—pardon, monsieur, I mean the other of the 
three—I did not see him; and monsieur will perhaps 
understand that I am deeply interested in the rest 
of the story.” 

The third man did not answer. A sort of mo¬ 
mentary, weird and breathless silence had settled on 
the thicket, on all around, on the night, save only for 
the whining of some oncoming thing through the air. 
Whine . . . whine . . . whine. The nerves, taut¬ 
ened, loosened, were jangling things. The third man 
raised his rifle. And somewhere the whining shell 



16 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


burst. And in the thicket a minor crash; a flash, gone 
on the instant, eye-blinding. 

The first man screamed out: 

“Christ! What have you done?” 

I think he was done in anyway,” said the third 
man calmly. It was as well to make sure.” 

“Gawd!” whimpered the first man. 

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchman, “I have always 
heard that you were incomparable. I salute you! As 
you said, you had not forgotten. We can speak at 
ease now. The rest of the story—” 

The third man laughed. 

„ “ 9 ° me , t0 me ‘. n London—after the war,” he said, 
and I will tell it to you. And perhaps there will 
be—other things to talk about.” 

‘I shall be honoured,” said the Frenchman. “We 
three! I begin to understand now. A house should 
not be divided against itself. Is it not so ? We should 
go far! It is fate to-night that_” 

Or the devil, ’ said the third man. 

“My Gawd!” The first man began to laugh—a 

cracked, jarring laugh. “After the war, the blinking 

war-after hell! There ain’t no end, there ain’t 
no— 


• fi, nd 3 . flarC Hung again !n the heavens, and 
in the thicket three men sat huddled against the tree 

trunks, torn, ragged and dishevelled men, but they 

were not staring into each others’ faces now; they 

were staring, their eyes magnetically attracted, at a 

- gr0Und Where a man ’ a ma " murdered, 
should be lying. 

But the man was not there. * 

The fourth man was gone. 


BOOK I: SHADOW VARNE 


THREE YEARS LATER 

T HE East End being, as it were, more akin to 
the technique and the mechanics of the thing, 
applauded the craftsmanship; the West End, 
a little grimly on the part of the men, and with a 
loquacity not wholly free from nervousness on the 
part of the women, wondered who would be next. 

“The cove as is runnin’ that show,” said the East 
End, with its tongue delightedly in its cheek, “knows 
’is wye abaht. Wish I was ’im!” 

“The police are nincompoops!” said the outraged 
masculine West End. “Absolutely!” 

“Yes, of course! It’s quite too impossible for 
words!” said the female of the West End. “One 
never knows when one’s own —do let me give you 
some tea, dear Lady Wintern . . .” 

From something that had merely been of faint and 
passing interest, a subject of casual remark, it had 
grown steadily, insiduously, had become conversation¬ 
ally epidemic. All London talked; the papers talked 
—virulently. Alone in that great metropolis, New 
Scotland Yard was silent, due, if the journals were 
to he believed, to the fact that that world-famous in¬ 
stitution was come upon a state of hopeless and 
atrophied senility. 

With foreknowledge obtained in some amazing 

19 


20 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


manner, with ingenuity, with boldness, and invariably 
with success, a series of crimes, stretching back several 
years, had been, were being, perpetrated with insistent 
regularity. These crimes had been confined to the 
West End of London, save on a few occasions when 
the perpetrators had gone slightly afield—because cer¬ 
tain wealthy West-Enders had for the moment 
changed their accustomed habitat. The journals at 
spasmodic intervals printed a summary of the transac¬ 
tions. In jewels, and plate, and cash, the figures had 
reached an astounding total, not one penny of which 
had ever been recovered or traced. Secret wall safes, 
hidden depositories of valuables opened with obliging 
celerity and disgorged their contents to some appari¬ 
tion which immediately vanished. There was no clue. 
It simply happened again and again. Traps had been 
set with patience and considerable artifice. The traps 
had never been violated. London was accustomed to 
crimes, just as any great city was; there were hun¬ 
dreds of crimes committed in London; but these were 
of a genre all their own, these were distinctive, these 
were not to be confused with other crimes, nor their 
authors with other criminals. 

And so London talked—and waited. 

It was raining—a thin drizzle. The night was un¬ 
inviting without; cosy within the precincts of a certain 
well-known West End club, the Claremont, to be ex¬ 
act. Two men sat in the lounge, in a little recess by 
the window. One, a man of perhaps thirty-three, of 
athletic build, with short-cropped black hair and clean¬ 
shaven face, a one-time captain of territorials in the 
late war, and though once known on the club mem- 


THREE YEARS LATER 


21 


bership roll as Captain Francis Newcombe was to 
be found there now as Francis Newcombe, Esquire; 
the other, a very much older man, with a thin, grey 
little face and thin, grey hair, would, on recourse to 
the club roll, have been found to be Sir Harris 
Greaves, Bart. 

The baronet made a gesture with his cigar, in¬ 
dicative of profound disgust. 

“Democracy!” he ejaculated. “The world safe for 
democracy! I am nauseated with that phrase. What 
does it mean? What did it ever mean? We have 
had three years now since the war which was to work 
that marvel, and I have seen no signs of it yet. So 
far as I—” 

Captain Francis Newcombe laughed. 

“And yet,” he said, “I embody in my person one 
of those signs. You can hardly deny that, Sir Harris. 
Certainly I would never have had, shall I call it the 
distinction, of being admitted to this club had it not 
been for the democratic leaven working through the 
war. You remember, of course? An officer and a 
gentleman! We of England were certainly consistent 
in that respect. While one was an officer one was a 
gentleman. The clubs were all pretty generally thrown 
open to officers during the war. Some of them came 
from the Lord knows where. T. G.’s they were called, 
you remember—Temporary Gentlemen. Afterward 
—but of course that’s another story so far as most 
of them were concerned. Take my own case. I en¬ 
listed in the ranks, and toward the latter end of the 
war I obtained my commission—I became a T. G. And 
as such I enjoyed the privileges of this club. I was 
eventually, however, one of the fortunate ones. At 


22 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

the close of the war the club took me on its perma¬ 
nent strength and, ergo, I became a—Permanent Gen¬ 
tleman. Democracy! Private Francis Newcombe— 
Captain Francis Newcombe—Francis Newcombe, Es¬ 
quire.” 

“A rather thin case!” smiled the baronet. “What 
I was about to say when you interrupted me was that, 
so far as I can see, all that the world has been made 
safe for by the war is the active expression of the 
predatory instinct in man. I refer to the big inter¬ 
ests, the trusts; to the radical outcroppings of certain 
labour elements; to—yes!”—he tapped the newspaper 
that lay on the table beside him—“the Simon-pure 
criminal such as this mysterious gang of desperadoes 
that has London at its wits’ ends, and those of us 
who have anything to lose in a state of constant 
apoplexy.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head. 

“I think you’re wrong, sir,” he said judicially. “It 
isn’t the aftermath of the war, or the result of the 
war. It is the war, of which the recent struggle was 
only a phase. It’s been going on since the days of the 
cave man. You’ve only to reduce the nation to the 
terms of the individual, and you have it. A nation 
lusts after something which does not belong to it. It 
proceeds to take it by force. If it fails it is punished. 
That is war. The criminal lusts after something. He 
flings down his challenge. If he is caught he is pun¬ 
ished. That is war. What is the difference?” 

The baronet sipped at his Scotch and soda. 

“H’m! Which brings us?” he suggested. 

“Nowhere!” said Captain Francis Newcombe 

promptly. “It’s been going on for ages; it’ll go on 

\ 


THREE YEARS LATER 


23 

for all time. Always the individual predatory; in¬ 
evitably in cycles, the cumulative individual running 
amuck as a nation. Why, you, sir, yourself, a little 
while ago when somebody here in the room made a 
remark to the effect that he believed this particular 
series of crimes was directly attributable to the war 
because it would seem that some one of ourselves, 
some one who has the entree everywhere, who, through 
being contaminated by the filth out there, had lost 
poise and was probably the guilty one, meaning, I take 
it, that the chap finding himself in a hole wasn’t so 
nice or particular in his choice of the way out of it 
as he would have been but for the war—you, Sir 
Harris, denied this quite emphatically. It—er— 
wouldn’t you say, rather bears me out?” 

The old baronet smiled grimly. 

“Quite possibly!” he said. “But if so, I must con¬ 
fess that my conclusion was based on a very different 
premise from yours. In fact, for the moment, I was 
denying the theory that the criminal in question was 
one of ourselves, quite apart from any bearing the 
war might have had upon the matter.” 

The ex-captain of territorials selected a cigarette 
with care from his case. 

“Yes?” he inquired politely. 

The old baronet cleared his throat. He glanced a 
little whimsically at his companion. 

“It’s been a hobby, of course, purely a hobby; but 
in an amateurish sort of way as a criminologist I have 
spent a great deal of time and money in—” 

“By Jove ! Really!” exclaimed Captain Newcombe. 
“I didn’t know, Sir Harris, that you—” He paused 
suddenly in confusion. “That’s anything but a com- 


24 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

plinenl to your reputation though, I’m afraid, isn’t 
U - ( f blt raw of me! I—I’ m sor ry, sir.” 

ot at all!” said the old baronet pleasantly; and 
then, with a wry smile: “You need not feel badly. In 
certain quarters much more intimate with the subject 
than you could be supposed to be, I am equally unrec¬ 
Its very good of you to let me down so easily,” 
said the ex-captain of territorials contritely. “Will 
you go on, sir? You were saying that you did not 
e leve these crimes were being perpetrated by one in 
the same sphere of life as those who were being vic- 

logical” Why IS that ’ s,r ? The theory seemed rather 

Because,” said the old baronet quietly, “I believe 
I know the man who is guilty.” 

The ex-captain of territorials stared. 

Good Lord, sir!” he gasped out. “You—you 

can’t mean that?” y 

, ,“{ USt tha , t! ” , A g rim brusqueness had crept into the 

“ A " d ”” d,p P I propSl 

But, sir the ex-captain of territorials in his 

bearing-” tft gro P in S for his 

you _» 3t Case ’ the authorities—surely 

tJY/k " 6 " 6 Very . polite at Scotland Yard— 

The old baronet smiled drily aeain “Tint 
quarter to which I referred W 11 , . 7 3S tbe 

Bu'e damm?"? T ‘T diver *“' 

, ’ he became suddenly irascible 

they re .00 self-sufficient, I a m a dodder"^ 


THREE YEARS LATER 


25 

interfering old idiot! But nevertheless I am firmly 
convinced that I am right, and they haven’t heard the 
end of the matter—if I have to devote every penny 
I’ve got to substantiating my theory and bringing the 
guilty man to justice!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe coughed in an embar¬ 
rassed way. 

The old baronet reached for his tumbler, and drank 
generously. It appeared to soothe his feelings. 

“Tut, tut!” he said self-chidingly. “I mean every 
word of that—that is, as to my determination to 
pursue my own investigations to the end; but perhaps 
I have not been wholly fair to the Yard. So far, I 
lack proof; I have only theory. And the Yard too 
has its theory. It is a very common disease. The 
theory of the Yard is that the man I believe to be 
guilty of these crimes of to-day died somewhere 
around the middle stages of the war.” 

“By Jove!” Captain Francis Newcombe leaned 
sharply forward on the arms of his chair. “You don’t 
say!” 

The old baronet wrinkled his brows, and was silent 
for a moment. 

“It’s quite extraordinary!” he said at last, with a 
puzzled smile. “I can’t for the life of me understand 
how I got on this subject, for I think we were dis¬ 
cussing democracy—but you appear to be interested.” 

“That is expressing it mildly,” said the ex-captain 
of territorials earnestly. “You can’t in common de¬ 
cency refuse me the rest of the story now, Sir Harris.” 

“There is no reason that I know of why I should,” 
said the old baronet. “Did you ever hear of a man 
called Shadow Varne?” 


2 6 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head. 

“No,” he said. 

Possibly, then,” said the old baronet, “you may 
remember the robbery at Lord Seeton’s place? It was 
during the war.” 

“No,” said the other thoughtfully. “I can’t say 
I do. I don’t think I ever heard of it.” 

Well, perhaps you wouldn’t,” nodded the old baro¬ 
net. It happened at a time when, from what you’ve 
said, I would imagine you were in the ranks, and— 
however, it doesn’t matter. The point is that the 
robbery at Lord Seeton’s is amazingly like, I could 
almost say, each and every one of this series of rob¬ 
beries that is taking place to-day. The same exact 
foreknowledge, the hidden wall safe, or hiding place, 
or repository, or whatever it might be, that was sup¬ 
posedly known only to the family; the utter absence 
of any clue; the complete disappearance of—shall we 
call it? the loot itself. There is only one difference. 
In the case of Lord Seeton, the jewels—it w T as prin¬ 
cipally a jewel robbery were eventually recovered. 
They were found in Paris in the possession of Shadow. 
Varne. But the old baronet smiled a little grimly 
again—“the police were not to blame for that.” 

Sir Harris Greaves, amateur criminologist, reverted 
to his tumbler of Scotch and soda. 

# Ca P tam Francis Newcombe knocked the ash from 
his cigarette with little taps of his forefinger 

“Yes?” he said. 

“It’s a bit of a story,” resumed the old baronet 
slowly. “Yes, quite a bit of a story. I do not know 
how Shadow Varne got to Paris; I simply know that, 
had he not taken sick, neither he nor the jewels would 


THREE YEARS LATER 


27 

ever have been found. But perhaps I am getting a 
little too far ahead. I think I ought to say that 
Shadow Varne, though he had never actually up to 
this time been known in a physical sense to the police, 
had established for himself a widespread and inter¬ 
national reputation. His name here, for instance, 
amongst the criminal element of our own East End 
was a sort of talisman, something to conjure with, 
as it were, though no one could ever be found who 
had seen or could describe the man. I suppose that 
is how he got the name of Shadow. Some must have 
known him, of course, but they were tight-lipped; and 
even these, I am inclined to believe, would never have 
been able to lay fingers on him, even had they dared. 
He was at once an inscrutable and diabolical char¬ 
acter. I would say, and in this at least Scotland Yard 
will agree with me, he seemed like some evil, unem¬ 
bodied spirit upon whom one could never come in a 
tangible sense, but that hovered always in the back¬ 
ground, dominating, permeating with his personality 
the criminal world.” 

“But if this is so, if no one knew him, or had ever 
seen him,” said the ex-captain of territorials in a 
puzzled way, “how was he recognised as Shadow 
Varne in Paris?” 

“I am coming to that,” said the old baronet quietly. 
“As you know very well, in those days they were al¬ 
ways poking into every rat hole in Paris for draft 
evaders. That is how .they stumbled on Shadow 
Varne. They dug him out of one of those holes, a 
very filthy hole, like a rat—like a very sick rat. The 
man was raving in delirium. That is how they knew 
they had caught Shadow Varne—because in his de- 


28 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


linum he disclosed his identity. And that is how they 
recovered Lord Seeton’s jewels.” 

“My word!” ejaculated Captain Francis New- 
combe. “A bit tough, I call that! My sympathies 
are almost with the accused!” 

I am afraid I have failed to make you understand 
the inhuman qualities of the man,” said the old baronet 
tersely. “However, Shadow Varne was even then 
too much for them—at least temporarily. A few 
nights later he escaped from the hospital; but he was 
still too sick a man to stand the pace, and they were 
too close on his heels. He had possibly, all told, a 
couple of hours of liberty, running, dodging through 
the streets of Paris. The chase ended somewhere on 
the bank of the Seine. He was fired at here as he 
ran, and though quite a few yards in the lead, he ap¬ 
peared to have been hit, for he was seen to stagger, 
fall, then recover himself and go on. He refused to 
halt. They fired and hit him again—or so they be¬ 
lieved. He fell to the ground—and rolled over the 

edge into the water. And that was the last that was 
ever seen of him.” 

My word!” ejaculated the ex-captain of terri- 

t 0 I‘ als „ a f' n - “That’s a nice end! And I must say, 
with all due deference to you, Sir Harris, that I can’t 

see anything wrong with Scotland Yard’s deduction 
1 fancy he’s dead, fast enough.” 

. “ Yes >” sa, d the old baronet deliberately, “I imag¬ 
ined you would say so; and I, too, would agree were 

LTrh FirSt ’ had !t bee " other 

man than Shadow Varne; and, second, that the body 

was never recovered.” y 

But, objected Captain Francis Newcombe, “if, as 


THREE YEARS LATER 


29 


you believe, the man is still carrying on, having been 
identified once, he would, wouldn’t you say, be recog¬ 
nised again?” 

“Not at all!” said the old baronet decidedly. “You 
must take into account the man’s sick and emaciated 
condition when he was caught, and the subsequent hos¬ 
pital surroundings. Let those who saw him then see 
the same man to-day, robust, in health, and in an en¬ 
tirely different atmosphere, locality and environment! 
Recognised? I would lay long odds against it, even 
leaving out of account the man’s known ingenuity for 
evading recognition.” 

The ex-captain of territorials nodded thoughtfully. 

“Yes,” he said, “that is quite possible; but, even 
granting that he is still alive, I can’t see—” 

“Why I should believe he is at the bottom of what 
is going on to-day here in London?” supplied the 
old baronet quickly. “Perhaps intuition, perhaps the 
mystery about the man that has interested me from 
the time I first heard of him in the early years of 
the war, and which has ever since been a fascinating 
study with me, has something to do with it. I told 
you to begin with that my proof was theory. But I 
believe it. I do not say he is alone in this, or was 
alone in the Lord Seeton affair; but he is certainly 
the head and front and brains of whatever he was, 
or is, engaged in. As for the similarity of the cases, 
I will admit that might be pure coincidence, but we 
know that Shadow Varne did have the Seeton jewels 
in his possession. The strongest point, however, that 
I have to offer in a tangible sense, bearing in mind 
the man himself and his hideously elusive propensities, 
is the fact there is no absolute proof of his death. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


30 

Why wasn’t his body recovered? You will answer me 
probably along the same lines that the Paris police 
argued and that were accepted by Scotland Yard. You 
will say that it was dark, that the body might not 
have come to the surface immediately, and under the 
existing conditions, by the time they procured a boat 
and began their search, it might easily be missed. 
Very good! That is quite possible. But why, then, 
was not the body eventually recovered in two or three 
days, say—a week, if you like? You will say that 
this would probably be very far indeed from being 
the first instance in which a body was never recovered 
from the Seine. And here, too, you would be quite 
right. But I do not believe it. I do not believe it 
was a dead man, or a man mortally wounded, or a 
man wounded so badly that he must inevitably drown, 
who pitched helplessly into the water that night. I 
believe he did it voluntarily, and with considered cun¬ 
ning, as the only chance he had. Go into the East 
End. Listen to the stories you will hear about him. 
The world does not get rid of such as he so easily! 
The man is not human. The crimes he has committed 
would turn your blood cold. He is the most despicable, 
the most wanton thing that I ever heard of. He 
would kill with no more compunction than you would 
break in two that match you are holding in your 
hand. Where he came from God alone knows, and—” 

A club attendant had stopped beside the old baro¬ 
net’s chair. 

“Yes?” said the old baronet. 

“I beg pardon, Sir Harris, but your car is here,” 
announced the man. 

“Very good! Thank you!” The old baronet 


THREE YEARS LATER 


3 i 

drained his glass and stood up. “Well, you have 
heard the story, captain,” he said with a dry smile. 
“I shall not embarrass you by asking you to decide 
between Scotland Yard and myself, but I shall at 
least expect you to admit that there is some slight 
justification for my theory.” 

The ex-captain of territorials, as he rose in courtesy, 
shook his head quietly. 

“If I felt only that way about it,” he said slowly, 
“I should simply thank you for a very interesting 
story and your confidence. As it is, there is so much 
justification I feel impelled to say to you that, if this 
man is what you describe him to be, is as dangerous 
as you say he is, I would advise you, Sir Harris, in all 
seriousness to leave him—to Scotland Yard.” 

“What!” exclaimed the old baronet sharply. “And 
let him go free! No, sir! Not if every effort I can 
put forth will prevent it! Never, sir—under any 
circumstances!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled gravely, and 
shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, at least, I felt I ought to say it,” he said. 
“Good-night, Sir Harris—and thank you so much!” 

“Good-night, captain!” replied the old baronet 
cordially, as he turned away. “Good-night to you, 
sir!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe watched the other leave 
the room, then he walked over to the window. The 
drizzle had developed into a downpour with gusts 
of wind that now pelted the rain viciously at the 
window panes. He frowned at the streaming glass. 

A moment later, as he moved away from the win¬ 
dow, he consulted his watch. It was a quarter past 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


32 

eleven. Downstairs he secured his hat and stick, and 
spoke to the doorman. 

“Get a taxi, please, Martin,” he requested, “and 
tell the chap to drive me home.” 

He lighted a cigarette as he waited, and then under 
the shelter of the doorman’s umbrella entered the taxi. 

It was not far. The taxi stopped before a flat in a 
fashionable neighbourhood that was quite in keeping 
with the fashionable club Captain Francis Newcombe 
had just left. His man admitted him. 

“It’s a filthy night, Runnells,” said the ex-captain 
of territorials. 

Runnells slammed the door against a gust of wind. 

“You’re bloody well right!” said Runnells. 


—II— 


AN IRON IN THE FIRE 

~TT was a neighbourhood of alleyways and lanes of 
J ferocious darkness; of ill-lighted, baleful streets, 
of shadows; and of doorways where no doors 
existed, black, cavernous and sinister openings to inner 
chambers of misery, of squalid want, of God-knows- 
what. 

It was the following evening, and still early—barely 
eight o’clock. Captain Francis Newcombe turned the 
corner of one of these gloomily lighted streets, and 
drew instantly back to crouch, as an animal crouches 
before it springs, in the deep shadows of a wretched 
tenement building. Light footfalls sounded; came 
nearer. Two forms, skulking, yet moving swiftly, 
came into sight around the corner. 

Captain Francis Newcombe sprang. His fist 
crashed with terrific force to the point of an opposing 
jaw. A queer grunt—and one of the two men 
sprawled his length on the pavement and lay quite 
still. Captain Francis Newcombe’s movements were 
incredibly swift. His left hand was at the second 
man’s throat now, and a revolver was shoved into the 
other’s face. 

The tableau held for a second. 

“A bit of a ‘cushing’ expedition, was it?” said the 
ex-captain of territorials calmly. “I looked a likely 
victim, didn’t I? Just the usual bash on the head 

33 


34 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

with a neddy, and then the usual stripping even down 
to the boots if they were good enough—and mine 
were good enough, eh? And I might get over that 
bash on the head, or my skull might be cracked; I 
might wake up in one of your filthy passageways here, 
or I might never wake up! What would it matter? 
It’s done every night. You make your living that way. 
And who’s to know who did it?” His grip tightened 
suddenly on the other’s throat. “Your kind are bet¬ 
ter dead,” said Captain Francis Newcombe, and there 
was something of horrible callousness in his conver¬ 
sational tones. “You lack art; you have no single 
redeeming feature.” It was as though now he were 
debating in cold precision with himself. “Yes, you 
are much better dead!” 

“Gor’ blimy, guv’nor, let me go,” half choked, half 
whined the other. “We wasn’t goin’ to touch you. 

No fear! Me an’ me mate was just goin’ round to 
the pub for an ’arf-pint—” 

“It would make a noise,” said Captain Francis New¬ 
combe unemotionally. “That is the trouble. I should 
have to clear out of here, and be put to the annoyance 
of waiting a half hour or so before I could come back 
and attend to my own affairs. That’s the only reason 
I haven’t fired this thing off in your face, and I’m 
not sure that reason’s good enough. But it’s a bit 
of a fag to argue it out, so—don’t move, you swine, 
or that 11 settle it quicker still!” His fingers, from 
the other’s throat, searched his own waistcoat pocket, 
and produced a silver coin. “Heads or tails?” he in¬ 
quired casually. “You call it.” 

“My Gawd, guv’nor,” whimpered the man, “yer 
don’t mean that! Yer wouldn’t shoot a cove down 


AN IRON IN THE FIRE 35 

like that, would yer ? My Gawd, yer wouldn’t do 
that!” 

“Heads or tails?” The ex-captain of territorial’s 
voice was bored. “I shan’t ask you again.” 

The light was poor. The man’s features, save that 
they were dirty and unshaven, were almost indistin¬ 
guishable; but the eyes roved everywhere in hunted 
fear, and he lumped the fingers of one hand together 
and plucked with them in an unhinged way at his lips. 

“I—no!” gurgled the man. “My Gawd!” His 
words were thick. His fingers, plucking, clogged his 
lips. “I carn’t—I—” The mechanism of the re¬ 
volver intruded itself—as unemotional as its owner— 
an unemotional click. The man screamed out. “No, 
no—wait, guv’nor! Wait!” he screamed. “’Eads! 
Gawd! ’Eads!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe examined the coin; the 
sense of touch, as he rubbed his fingers over it, helping 
out the bad light. 

“Right, you are!” he said indifferently. “Heads it 
is! You’re in luck!” He tossed the coin on the pave¬ 
ment. “I’d keep that, if I were you.” His voice 
was still level, still bored. “You haven’t got any¬ 
thing, of course, to do any sniping with, for anything 
as valuable as that would never remain in the posses¬ 
sion of your kind for more than five minutes before 
you would have pawned it.” He glanced at the pros¬ 
trate form of the thug’s companion, who was now 
beginning to show signs of returning consciousness. 
“I fancy you’ll find his jaw’s broken. Better give him 
a leg up,” he said, and, turning on his heel, walked 
on down the street. 

Captain Francis Newcombe did not look back. He 


36 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

traversed the murky block, turned a corner, turned 
still another, and presently made his way through an 
entrance, long since doorless, into the hallway of a 
tenement house. It was little better than a pit of 
blackness here, but his movements were without hesi¬ 
tation, as one long and intimately familiar with his 
surroundings. He mounted a rickety flight of stairs, 
and, without ceremony, opened the door of a room 
on the first landing, entered, and closed the door be¬ 
hind him. The room had no light in it. 

‘Who’s there?” demanded a weak, querulous, 
female voice. 

The visitor made no immediate reply. The place 
reeked with the odour of salt fish; the air was stale, 
and an offence that assaulted the nostrils. Captain 
Francis Newcombe crossed to the window, wrenched 
at it, and flung it viciously open. 

A protracted fit of coughing came from a corner 
behind him. 

Didn t I tell you never to send for me?” he 
snapped out in abrupt menace. 

^ Ow, it’s you, is it?” said the woman’s voice. 
“Well, I ain’t never done it afore, ’ave I? Not in 
three years I ain’t.” 

“You’ve done it now; you’ve done it to-night—and 
that s once too often! returned Captain Francis 
Newcombe savagely. “And before I’m through with 
you, I’ll promise you you’ll never do it again!” 

“No,” she answered out of the darkness, “I won’t 

never do it again, an’ that’s why I done it to-night_ 

’cause I won’t never ’ave another chance. The doctor 
e says I ain t goin’ to be ’ere in the mornin’.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe lit a match. It dis- 


AN IRON IN THE FIRE 


37 

closed a tallow dip and a piece of salt fish on a bat¬ 
tered chair—and, beyond, the shadowy outline of a 
bed. He swept the piece of fish to the floor out of 
his way, lighted the candle, and, leaning forward, held 
it over the bed. 

A woman’s face stared back at him in the flickering 
light; a curiously blotched face, and one that was 
emaciated until the cheek bones seemed the dominant 
feature. Her dull, almost glazed, grey eyes blinked 
painfully in even the candle rays; a dirty woollen wrap 
was fastened loosely around a scrawny neck, and over 
this there straggled strands of tangled and unkempt 
grey hair. 

“Well, I fancy the diagnosis isn’t far wrong,” said 
the ex-captain of territorials critically. “I’ve been 
too good to you—and prosperity’s let you down. For 
three years you haven’t lifted a finger except to carry 
a glass of gin to your lips. And now this is the end, 
is it?” 

The woman did not answer. She breathed heavily. 
The hectic spots on her cheeks burned a little wider. 

Captain Francis Newcombe set the candle back on 
the chair, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood 
looking at her. His face exhibited no emotion. 

“I haven’t heard yet why you sent for me,” he said 
sharply. 

“Polly,” she said thickly. “I wanter know wot 
abaht Polly?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled without mirth. 

“My dear Mrs. Wickes,” he said evenly, “you know 
all about Polly. I distinctly remember bringing you 
the letter she enclosed for you in mine ten days ago, 
because I distinctly remember that after you had read 


38 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

it I watched you tear it up. And as your education 
is such that you cannot write in return, I also dis¬ 
tinctly remember that you gave me messages for her 
which I was to incorporate in my own reply. Since 
then I have not heard from Polly.” 

The woman raised herself suddenly on her elbow, 
and, her face contorted, shook her fist. 

“My dear Mrs. Wickes!” she mimicked furiously 
through a burst of coughing. “Yer a cool ’un, yer 
are. That’s wot yer says, yer stands there an’ smiles 
like a bloomin’ hangel, an’ yer says, my dear Mrs. 
Wickes! Curse yer, I knows more abaht yer than 
yer thinks for. Three years I’ve watched yer, an’ hif 
I’ve kept my tongue to meself that don’t say I don’t 
know wot I knows.” 

“Indeed!” Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged 
his shoulders. He smiled slightly. “Then I should 
say, if it were true, that it is sometimes dangerous, 
Mrs. Wickes—to know even a little about some 
things.” 

The woman rocked in the bed, and hugged her 
thin bosom against a spasm of coughing that came 
near to strangulation. 

“Bah!” she shouted, when she could get her breath. 
“I ain’t afraid of yer any more. Damn yer, I’m 
dyin’ anyhow! It’s nothin’ to you wiv yer smug smile, 
except yer glad I’ll be out of the wye—an’—an’, 
Gawd, it ain’t nothin’ to me either. I’m sick of it 
all, an’ I’m glad, I am; but afore I goes I wanter 
know wot abaht Polly. Wot’d yer tyke her awye for 
three years ago?” 

“For the price of two quid paid weekly to a certain 
Mrs. Wickes, who is Polly’s mother,” said Captain 


AN IRON IN THE FIRE 


39 

Francis Newcombe composedly; “and with which the 
said Mrs. Wickes has swum in gin ever since.” 

Mrs. Wickes fell back exhausted on her pillow. 

“Wot for?” she whispered in fierce insistence. “I 
wanter know wot for?” 

“Well,” said Captain Francis Newcombe, “even at 
fifteen Polly was an amazingly pretty little girl—and 
she showed amazing promise. I’m wondering how she 
has developed. Extremely clever youngster! Don’t 
see, in fact, Mrs. Wickes, where she got it from! 
Not even the local desecration of the king’s English 
—in spite of the board schools! Amazing! We 
couldn’t let a flower like that bloom uncultivated, 
could we?” 

The woman was up in the bed again. 

“A gutter brat!” she cried out. “An’ you says send 
’er to school wiv the toffs in America, ’cause there 
wouldn’t be no chance of doin’ that ’ere at ’ome; an’ 
I says the toffs don’t tyke ’er kind there neither. An’ 
you says she goes as yer ward, an’ yer can get ’er in, 
only she ’as to forget abaht these ’ere London slums. 
An’ she ain’t to write no letters to me except through 
you, ’cause hif any was found down ’ere they’d turn 
their noses up over there an’ give Polly the bounce.” 

“Quite right, Mrs. Wickes!” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe imperturbably. “And for three years 
Polly has been in one of the most exclusive girls’ 
seminaries in America—and incidentally I might say 
I am arranging to go over there shortly for a little 
visit. If her photographs are to be relied upon, she 
has more than fulfilled her early promise. A very 
beautiful young woman, educated, and now, Mrs. 
Wickes—a lady. She has made a circle of friends 


4 o THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

among the best and the wealthiest. Why, even now, 
with the summer holidays coming on, you know, I un¬ 
derstand she is to be the guest of a school friend in 
a millionaire’s home. Think of that, Mrs. Wickes! 
What more could any woman ask for her daughter? 
And why should you, for instance, ask more to-night? 
Why this eleventh hour curiosity? You agreed to 
it all three years ago, Mrs. Wickes—for two quid a 
week.” 

“Yes,” said the woman passionately, “an’ I’m prob¬ 
ably goin’ to ’ell for it now! I knowed then yer 
wasn’t doin’ this for Polly’s sake, an’ in the three 
years I kept on knowin’ yer more an’ more for the 
devil you are. But I says to meself that I’m ’ere to 
see Polly don’t come to no harm, but—but I ain’t 
goin’ to be ’ere no more, an’ that’s wot I wants to 
know to-night. An’ I asks yer, wot’s yer game?” 

“Really!” Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged 
his shoulders again. “This isn’t very interesting, Mrs. 
Wickes. And in any case, I fail to see what you are 
going to do about it, or what lever you could possibly 
bring to bear to make me divulge what you are pleased 
to imagine is some base and ulterior motive in what 
I have done. It is quite well known among Captain 
Newcombe’s circle that he is educating a ward in 
America. It is—er—rather to his credit, is it not?” 

“Gawd curse yer wiv yer smooth tongue!” said 
Mrs. Wickes wildly. “I knows! I knows yer got a 
game—some dirty game wiv Polly in it. Yer clever, 
yer are—an’ yer ain’t human. But yer won’t win, an’ 
all along ’o Polly. She won’t do nothin’ that ain’t 
straight, she won’t. Polly ain’t that kind.” 

“Oh, as to that, and granting my wickedness,” said 


AN IRON IN THE FIRE 41 

Captain Francis Newcombe indifferently, “I shouldn’t 
worry. Having you in mind, Mrs. Wickes, I fancy 
even that would be quite all right—blood always tells, 
you know.” 

“Blood! Blood’ll tell, will it?” The woman was 
rocking in the bed again. She burst into harsh laugh¬ 
ter. It brought on another, and even more severe, 
strangling fit of coughing. “Blood’ll tell, will it?” 
she choked, as she gasped for breath. “Well, so it 
will! So it will!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe stared at her from nar¬ 
rowed eyes. “What do you mean by that?” he de¬ 
manded sharply. 

But Mrs. Wickes had fallen back upon her pillow 
in utter exhaustion. She lay fighting painfully, piti¬ 
fully now for every breath. 

“What do you mean by that?” repeated Captain 
Francis Newcombe still more sharply. 

And then suddenly, as though some strange premo¬ 
nition were, at work, all fight gone from her, the 
woman threw out her arms in a broken gesture of 
supplication. 

“I’m a wicked woman, a bloody wicked ’un I’ve 
been. Gawd forgive me for it!” she whispered. 
“Polly ain’t no blood of mine.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe rested his elbows on the 
back of the chair, and smiled coolly. 

“I think,” he said evenly, “it’s my turn now to 
ask what the game is? That’s a bit thick, isn’t it— 
after three years?” 

The hectic spots had faded from the woman’s face, 
and an ominous greyness was taking their place. She 
was crying now. 


42 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“It s Gawd’s truth,” she said. “I was afraid yer 
wouldn’t ’ave give me the two quid a week hif yer’d 
known I ’adn’t no ’old on ’er. Polly don’t know. 
No one knows but me, an’—” Her voice trailed off 
through weakness. 

Captain Francis Newcombe, save that his eyes had 
narrowed a little more, made no movement. He 
watched her without comment as she struggled for 
her breath again. 

‘I didn’t mean to ’ave no light wiv yer, Gawd 
knows I didn’t. Gawd knows I didn’t send for yer 
for that. I only wanted to ask yer wot abaht Polly, 
an’ to ask yer to be good to ’er, an’—an’ tell yer 
wot I’m tellin’ yer now afore it’s too late. An’— 
an She raised herself' with a sudden convulsive 
effort to her elbow. “Gawd, I—I’m goin’ now” 

With a swift movement Captain Francis Newcombe 

whipped a flask from his pocket, and held it to the 
woman’s lips. 

She swallowed a few drops with difficulty, and lay 
still. 

Presently Mrs. Wickes’ lips moved. 

Captain Francis Newcombe, close beside the bed 
now, leaned over her. 

“A lydy ’er mother was, an’ ’er father ’e was a 
gentleman born e was. I—I don’t know nothin’ 
abaht ’em except she was a guverness an’_’e ’adn’t 
much money. Neither of ’em ’adn’t no family ac¬ 
cordin’ to ’er, an’ countin’ wot ’appened she told the 
truth, poor soul.” 

Again Mrs. Wickes lay silent. Her lips continued 
to move, but they were soundless. She seemed sud¬ 
denly to become conscious of this, and motioned 


AN IRON IN THE FIRE 


43 

weakly for the flask. And again with difficulty she 
swallowed a few drops. 

“Years ago this was.” Mrs. Wickes forced the 
words with long pauses between. “ ’Ard times came 
on ’em. ’E got killed in a haccident. An’ she took 
sick after Polly came, an’ the money went, an’ she 
wouldn’t ’ave charity, an’ she got down to this, like 
us ’uns ’ere, tryin’ to keep body an’ soul together 
on the bit she ’ad left. An’ she died, an’ I took 
Polly. Two years old Polly was then. There wasn’t 
no good of tellin’ Polly an’ ’ave ’er give ’erself airs 
when she ’ad to go out an’ do ’er bit an’ earn some¬ 
thing. An’, wot’s more, if she’d known I wasn’t ’er 
mother she might ’ave stopped workin’ for me—an’ 
I couldn’t ’ave made ’er, ’avin’ lost my hold on ’er— 
an’ I wasn’t goin’ to ’ave anything like that. Polly 
Wickes—Polly Wickes—the flower girl. Flowers 
—posies—pretty posies—that’s where yer saw 
’er—” 

The woman’s voice had thickened; her words, in 
snatches, were incoherent: 

“Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—Polly Gray—Polly 
Gray ’er name is—Polly Gray. I got the lines an’ the 
birth paper. I kept ’em all these years. ’Ere! I got 
’em ’ere.” 

“Where?” said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. 

“ ’Ere!” Mrs. Wickes plucked feebly at the edge 
of the bed clothing. “ ’Ere!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe thrust his hand quickly 
in under the mattress. After a moment’s search he 
brought out a soiled envelope. It bore a faded super¬ 
scription in a scrawling hand. He picked up the candle 
from the chair and read it: 


44 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“Polly’s papers which is God’s truth, 

Mrs. Wickes X her mark.” 

He tore the envelope open rather carefully at the 
end. It contained two papers that were turned a little 
yellow with age. Yes, it was quite true! His eyes 
travelled swiftly over the names: 

“Harold Morton Gray. . . . Elizabeth Pauline Forbes. 
Pauline Gray. ...” 

There was a sudden sound from the bed—like a 
long, fluttering sigh. Captain Francis Newcombe 
swung sharply about. The woman’s arm was stretched 
out toward him; dulled eyes seemed to be- striving 
desperately in their fading vision to search his face. 

“Polly!” Mrs. Wickes whispered. “For—for 
for Christ’s sake—be—be good to Polly—be good 
to—” 

The outstretched arm fell to the bed covering—and 
Mrs. Wickes lay still. 

Captain Francis Newcombe leaned forward, hold¬ 
ing the candle, searching the form on the bed critically 
with his eyes. After a moment he straightened up. 

Mrs. Wickes was dead. 

Captain Francis Newcombe replaced the papers in 
the envelope, and placed the envelope in his pocket. 
He set the candle back on the chair, blew it out, and 
walked across the room to the door. 

“Gray, eh?” said Captain Francis Newcombe under 
his breath, as he closed the door behind him. “Polly 
Gray, eh? Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s just 
as good an iron in the fire whether it’s—Wickes or 
Gray!” 


—Ill— 


THREE OF THEM 

T WENTY-FIVE minutes later, Captain Francis 
Newcombe stood at the door of his apart¬ 
ment. Runnells admitted him. 

“Paul Cremarre here yet?” demanded the ex-cap¬ 
tain of territorials briskly. 

“Yes,” said Runnells. “Been here half an hour.” 
With Runnells behind him, Captain Francis New¬ 
combe entered the living room of the apartment. A 
tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small, very 
carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that 
were equally black but whose pupils were curiously 
minute, stood by the mantel. 

“Ah, monsieur!” He waved his arm in greeting. 
“Salutl” 

“Back, eh, Paul?” nodded Captain Francis New¬ 
combe, flinging himself into a lounge chair. “Expected 
you, of course, to-night. Well, what’s the news? 
How’s the fishing smack?” 

Paul Cremarre smiled faintly. 

“Ah, the poor Marianne!” he said. “Such bad 
weather! It is always the bilge. If it did not leak 
so furiously!” He lifted his shoulders, and blew a 
wreath of cigarette smoke languidly ceilingward. 

“So!” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “Been 
searched again, eh?” 

The Frenchman laughed softly. 

“Two very charming old gentlemen who were sum- 

45 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


46 

mering on the French coast, and were so interested 
in everything. Could they come aboard? But, why 
not? It was a pleasure! Such harmless old children 
they looked—not at all like Leduc and Colferre of the 
Prefecture!” 

“One more sign of the times!” commented Captain 
Francis Newcombe a little shortly. “And Pere 
Mouche?” 

“Ah!” murmured the Frenchman. “That is an¬ 
other story! I am afraid it is true that his back 
is really bending under the load. He has done amaz¬ 
ingly; but though the continent is wide, it can only 
absorb so much, and there are always difficulties. He 
says himself that we feed him too well.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe frowned. 

“Well, he’s right, of course! Leduc and Colferre, 
eh? I don’t like it! If we needed anything further 
to back us up in our decision lately that it was about 
time to lay low for a while, we’ve got it here. There 
is to-morrow night’s affair, of course, that naturally 
we will carry through, but after that I think we should 
come to a full stop for, say—a six months’ holiday. 
Personally, as you know, I’m rather anxious to make 
a little trip to America. I’ll take Runnells along as 
my man for the looks of it. He can play at valeting 
and still enjoy himself if he keeps out of mischief— 
which I will see to it”—Captain Francis Newcombe’s 
lips thinned—“that he does! That will account for 
the temporary closing up of this apartment here. And 
you, Paul—I suppose it will be the Riviera for you?” 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ah!” he said. “As to that I do not know, but 
what does it matter?” He laughed good-humouredly. 


THREE OF THEM 


47 

“I have no attraction such as monsieur with a charm¬ 
ing ward in America. I am of the desolate, one of 
the forlorn of the earth in whom no one has more 
than a passing interest.” 

“Except Scotland Yard and the Prefecture,” said 
the ex-captain of territorials with a grim smile. He 
rose suddenly from his chair and paced once or twice 
the length of the room. “Yes,” he said decisively, 
“we’d be fools to do anything else. It will give Pere 
Mouche a chance to work down his surplus stock, and 
the police to lose a little of their ardour. It’s getting 
a bit hot. Scotland Yard is badly flicked on the raw. 
London is becoming unhealthy. Even Runnells here, 
whom I would never accuse of having any delicate 
sense of prescience, has been uneasy of late as though 
he felt the net drawing in.” 

“You’re bloody well right!” said Runnells gruffly. 
“I don’t know how, but it’s true. Let the coppers nose 
a cold scent for a while, I says. I can do with a bit 
of America whenever you’re ready!” 

“Quite so!” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “It’s 
in the air. Like Runnells, I do not know exactly where 
it comes from, but I know it’s there.” 

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchman, “I have often 
wondered about the fourth—stragglers, I think you 
called us that night—about the fourth straggler.” 

“You mean?” demanded Captain Francis New¬ 
combe sharply. 

“Nothing!” said the Frenchman. “One sometimes 
wonders, that is all. The thought flashed through 
my mind as you spoke. But it means nothing. How 
could it? More than three years have gone. Let 
us forget my remark.” He flicked the ash from his 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


48 

cigarette. “Well, then, as I am the only one left 
to speak, I will say that I too agree. For six months 
we do not exist so far as business is concerned—after 
to-morrow night.” He made a wry face, and laughed. 
“Well, it will be dull! I fear it will be dull, and 
one will become ennuye 9 but it is wise. So! It is 
decided. And so there remains only to-morrow night. 
I was to be here this evening to discuss the details— 
and here I am. Shall we proceed to discuss them? 
I have made a promise to the little Pere Mouche that 
when I return he shall eat a ragout from a veritable 
gold plate, and that Scotland Yard—” 

The doorbell interrupted the Frenchman’s words. 

Runnells left the room to answer the summons. 
He was back in a moment with a card on a silver 
tray, which he handed to the ex-captain of territorials. 

The card tray was significant. Captain Francis 
Newcombe glanced first at Runnell’s face, frowned— 
then picked up the card. His eyes narrowed as he 
read it. On the card was written: 

DETECTIVE-SERGEANT MULLINS 
NEW SCOTLAND YARD 

He handed the card coolly to Paul Cremarre. 

“Everything all right so far as you are concerned?” 
he demanded in a low, quick tone. 

The Frenchman smiled at the card in a curious 
way, handed it back, and lighted a fresh cigarette. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“1 Sure?” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

“Absolutely!” replied the Frenchman in the same 
low tone. 


THREE OF THEM 49 

“Very good!” said the ex-captain of territorials. 
“Don’t look so damned white around the gills, Run- 
nells. And watch yourself!” He raised his voice. 
“Show the sergeant in, Runnells!” he said. 

A minute later, Runnells ushered in a thick-set, 
florid-faced man. 

“Sergeant Mullins, sir!” he announced, and with¬ 
drew from the room. 

The sergeant looked inquiringly from one to the 
other of the two men. 

“I’m sorry to intrude, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s 
Captain Newcombe, I—” 

Captain Francis Newcombe waved his hand pleas¬ 
antly. 

“Not at all, sergeant!” he said. “I am Captain 
Newcombe. What can I do for you?” 

“Well, sir,” said the man from Scotland Yard, “I’m 
not saying you can do anything, and then again maybe 
you can.” He glanced at the Frenchman, and coughed 
slightly. 

“Mr. Cremarre is a close friend of mine,” said 
Captain Francis Newcombe quietly. “You may speak 
quite freely before him, so far as I am concerned.” 

“Very good, sir!” said Sergeant Mullins. “Well, 
then, even if the papers hadn’t been full of it all day, 
you’d probably know about it anyway, being as how 
you were a friend of his. It’s Sir Harris Greaves, sir 
—Sir Harris’ murder.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe, as though instinctively, 
turned toward an evening paper that lay upon the 
table, its great headlines screaming the murder across 
the front page. 

“Good God, sergeant—yes!” he exclaimed. “It’s a 


50 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

shocking thing! Shocking!” He jerked his head to¬ 
ward the paper, and glanced at Paul Cremarre. 
“You’ve read it, of course, Paul?” 

“Pve never read anything like it before,” said the 
Frenchman grimly. “The most wanton thing I ever 
heard of! Absolutely purposeless I” 

“Don’t you be too sure about that, sir,” said De¬ 
tective-Sergeant Mullins crisply. “Things aren’t done 
purposelessly—leastways, not them kind of things.” 

‘Exactly!” agreed Captain Francis Newcombe. 
“Right you are, sergeant! But you’ll pardon me if 
I appear a bit curious as to why you should have 
come to me about it.” 

Well, sir, said Sergeant IVTullins, “that’s simple 
enough. You are the last one as had any conversation 
with Sir Harris before he was murdered.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe stared at the Scotland 
Yard man in a puzzled way. 

I am afraid I don’t quite understand, sergeant,” 
he said a little helplessly. “According to the published 
accounts, Sir Harris was stabbed in his bed, presuma¬ 
bly during the early morning hours, though no sound 
was heard, and the crime wasn’t discovered until his 
man went to take Sir Harris his tea at the usual hour 

this morning. But perhaps the accounts are inaccu¬ 
rate?” 

No, sir, said Sergeant Mullins; “as far as that 
goes, they’re accurate enough. The doctors say it 
must have been somewhere between two and three 
o’clock in the morning.” 

“Quite so!” said Captain Francis Newcombe 
“That is what I had in mind. The last time I saw 
Sir Harris was yesterday evening at the club. 


THREE OF THEM 


5i 

Harris left the club shortly before I did. I have no 
exact idea what the hour was, though the doorman 
would probably be able to say, but I am quite certain 
it could not have been later than half past eleven.” 

“It wasn’t even as late as that, sir,” said the man 
from Scotland Yard seriously. “Ten after eleven, it 
was, when Sir Harris left; and you, sir, at a quarter 
past. But I didn’t say, sir, that you were the last 
one as spoke to Sir Harris alive. Conversation was 
what I said, sir—and a lengthy one too. One says a 
lot in an hour or so, sir.” 

“Oh, I see!” said Captain Francis Newcombe, with 
a smile. “Or, rather—I don’t! What about this con¬ 
versation, sergeant?” 

“Well, sir, if you don’t mind,” said Detective- 
Sergeant Mullins, “that’s what I’d like to know—what 
it was about?” 

“Good Lord!” gasped the ex-captain of territorials 
feebly. “I’m not sure I know myself—now. What 
do men generally talk about over a Scotch and soda? 
I believe we started with the subject of democracy, 
and I’m afraid, in fact I’m certain, I talked a good 
bit of drivel, and incidentally settled several of the 
world questions and so on, and then we drifted from 
one thing to another in a desultory fashion.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Mullins. “And the things 
you drifted to—could you remember them, sir? It’s 
very important, sir, that you should.” 

“Well, if it’s important, I’ll try,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe gravely. “The shows, of course, 
and the American Yacht race, horses, a hunting lodge 
Sir Harris had in Scotland, and—yes, I believe that’s 
all, sergeant. But it’s quite a range, at that.” 


52 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


Detective-Sergeant Mullins inspected the bottom 
button of his waistcoat intently. 

“Sir Harris was a bit of a criminologist in his way, 
as perhaps you’ve heard, sir?” he said. 

“Yes, I believe I have heard it said that was a hobby 
of his,” nodded Captain Francis Newcombe. “But I 
wouldn’t have known it from anything Sir Harris said 
last night, if that’s what you mean. The subject wasn’t 
mentioned.” 

“Nor any crime? And particularly any particular 
criminal?” prodded the Scotland Yard man. 

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head. 

“Not a word,” he said. 

Detective-Sergeant Mullins looked up a little gloom¬ 
ily from his waistcoat button. 

“I’m sorry for that,” he said. 

“So am I, if it would have helped any,” said the 
ex-captain of territorials heartily. “But what’s the 
point, sergeant?” 

“Well, you see, sir,” said the Scotland Yard man, 
“with all due respect to the dead, Sir Harris fancied 
himself a bit, he did, along those lines. Some queer 
notions he had, sir—and stubborn, as you might say. 
He s got himself into trouble more than once, and 
the Yard’s had its own time with him. He’s been 
warned, sir, often enough—and if he was alive, he 
wouldn’t say he hadn’t. It’s what he’s been told might 
happen. There’s no other reason, as far as we’ve 
gone, why he should have been murdered. It looks 
the likely thing that he went too far this time, and 
got to know more than some crook took a notion it 
was safe to have him know.” 


THREE OF THEM 


53 

Paul Cremarre smiled inscrutably at the Scotland 
Yard man. 

“I take back what I said about it being a purposeless 
murder, sergeant,” he murmured. 

“Yes, sir,” said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. “Well, 
I fancy that’s all, gentlemen. We were hoping that 
if matters had reached as grave a state as that—that 
is, if Sir Harris ever realised how deep he’d got in— 
it would have been a bit on his mind, as you might 
say, and in the course of a long conversation with a 
friend, sir, a hint of it, even if he didn’t go any fur¬ 
ther, might have cropped up.” He buttoned his coat. 
“You’re quite sure, Captain Newcombe, thinking it 
over, that there wasn’t anything mentioned, even cas¬ 
ually like, that would give us a clue?” 

“Quite, sergeant!” said the ex-captain of territorials 
emphatically. 

“Well, I’ll be going, then,” said the Scotland Yard 
man. “And sorry to have taken up your time, sir.” 

“You’ve done nothing but your duty,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe pleasantly. He rang the bell. 
“Runnells, bring Sergeant Mullins a drink!” And 
with a smile to the Scotland Yard man: “Will it be 
Scotch, sergeant?” 

“Why, thank you very much, sir,” said Detective- 
Sergeant Mullins. He took the glass from Runnells. 
“Here’s how, sir!” He wiped his lips with the back 
of his hand. “Good-night, gentlemen!” 

“Good-night, sergeant,” said the ex-captain of terri¬ 
torials. 

“Good-night, sergeant,” said the Frenchman. 

Detective-Sergeant Mullins’ footsteps died away in 
the hall. 


54 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s dark eyes rested un¬ 
emotionally upon the Frenchman. 

The Frenchman leaned against the mantel and 
stared at the end of his cigarette. 

The front door closed, and Runnells came back into 
the room. 

Now, Runnells, said Captain Francis Newcombe 
blandly, “bring us all a drink, and we will talk about 
“—to-morrow night.” 


—IV— 


GOLD PLATE 

A MOTOR ran swiftly along a country road. 
Two men sat in the front seat. 

“My friend, Runnells,” said one of the two 
quizzically, after a silence that had endured for miles, 
“what in hell is the matter with you to-night?” 

“I don’t know,” said Runnells, who drove the car. 
“What the captain was talking about last night, maybe 
—the things you feel in the air.” 

“Bah!” said Paul Cremarre composedly. “If it 
is only the air! For three years we have found noth¬ 
ing in the air but good fortune.” 

“That’s all right,” Runnells returned sullenly. 
“But just the same that’s the way I feel, and I can’t 
help it. We’re going to lay low for a spell after 
to-night, and maybe that’s what’s wrong too—kind 
of as though we were pushing our luck over the edge 
by sticking it just one night too many.” 

The Frenchman whistled a bar lightly under his 
breath. 

“I should be delighted —delighted ” he said, “to 
leave to-night alone—but not the Earl of Cloverley’s 
gold plate! Have you forgotten that I told you I 
had made a promise to our little Pere Mouche—to 
eat ragout from a gold plate? I have never eaten 
from a gold plate. It is a dream!” 

“You’re bloody well right, it is!” said Runnells 
gruffly. “And I only hope it ain’t going to be any¬ 
thing worse’n a dream to-night.” 

55 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


56 

“It is evident,” said Paul Cremarre, with a low 
laugh, “that, whatever you have eaten from, and 
whatever you have eaten of, to-night, my Runnells, 
it has not agreed with you! Is it not so?” 

“Look here!” said Runnells suddenly. “If you 
want to know, I’ll tell you. I know everything’s fixed 
for to-night, maybe better than it’s ever been fixed 
before—it ain’t that. It’s last night. It’s damned 
queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in 
our rooms!” 

“Ah!” murmured Paul Cremarre. “Yes, my Run¬ 
nells, I too have thought of that. But you were at 
home the night before, when Sir Harris Greaves was 
murdered, you and the captain, were you not? It is 
nothing, is it? A mere little coincidence—yes? You 
should know better than I do.” 

“There’s nothing to know,” said Runnells shortly. 
“It’s just the idea of a Scotland Yard man coming to 
our diggings. Like a warning, somehow, it looks.” 

“Yes,” said Paul Cremarre. “Quite so! And the 
headlights now—hadn’t you better switch them off? 
And run a little slower, Runnells. It is not far now, 
if I have made no mistake in my bearings.” 

Darkness fell upon the road; the motor slackened 
its speed. 

“You were speaking of the visit from Scotland 
Yard,” resumed the Frenchman calmly. “You were 
at home, of course, when Captain Newcombe returned 
from the club the night before last at—what time was 
it, he said?” 

“Oh, that’s straight enough!” grunted Runnells. 

He came in about half past eleven, and we were 
both in bed by twelve. I’ve told you it ain’t that. 


GOLD PLATE 


57 

What would he have to do with sticking an old toff 
like Sir Harris that never done him any harm?” 

“Nothing,” said Paul Cremarre. “I was simply 
thinking that Sergeant Mullins’ theory reminded me 
of something that you, too, may perhaps remember.” 

“What’s that?” inquired Runnells. 

“A rifle shot that was fired one night in a thicket 
when the Boche had us on the run,” said Paul 
Cremarre. 

Runnells swung sharply in his seat. 

“Gawd!” he said hoarsely. “What d’you want to 
bring that up for to-night? I—damn it—I can see it 
out there in the black of the road now!” 

The Frenchman remained silent. 

Runnells spoke again after a moment. 

“He’s a rare ’un, all right, he is, is the captain,” 
he said slowly; “but it wasn’t him that did in Sir Har¬ 
ris Greaves. I’d take my oath on that. We was 
both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was 
still sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morn- 
mg. 

“And you, Runnells,” inquired the Frenchman 
softly, “you too slept well?” 

“You mean,” said Runnells quickly, “that he slipped 
out again during the night?” 

“Not at all!” said Paul Cremarre quietly. “How 
should I know? I mean nothing, except that Captain 
Francis Newcombe is a man like no other man in the 
world; that he is, as I once had the honour to remark 
—incomparable.” 

Runnells grunted over the wheel. 

“I shan’t ask him,” he said tersely. 

“Nor I,” said Paul Cremarre. 


58 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Again there was silence; then the Frenchman spoke 
abruptly: 

“Slower, Runnells. If I am not mistaken, we are 
arrived. The lodge gates can’t be more than a quar¬ 
ter of a mile on, and the bit of lane that borders the 
park ought to be just about here—yes, there it is!” 

Runnells stopped the motor; and then, with the 
engine running softly, backed it for a short distance 
from the main road down an intensely black, tree- 
lined lane. 

“That’s far enough,” said Paul Cremarre. “We 
can’t take any risk of being heard from the Hall. 
Now edge her in under the trees.” 

“What for?” grumbled Runnells. “It’s so bloody 
dark, I’d probably smash her. She’s right enough as 
she is. There’s a fat chance of any one coming along 
this here lane at two o’clock in the morning, ain’t 
there?” 

“Runnells,” said the Frenchman smoothly, “I quote 
from the book of Captain Francis Newcombe: ‘Chance 
is the playground of fools.’ Edge her in, my Run¬ 
nells.” 

“Oh, all right!” said Runnells—and a moment later 
the lane was empty. 

Still another moment, and the two men, each carry¬ 
ing two rather large-sized, empty travelling bags, be¬ 
gan to make their way silently and cautiously through 
the thickly wooded park of the estate. It was not 
easy going in the darkness. Now and then they stum¬ 
bled. Once or twice Runnells cursed fiercely under 
his breath; once or twice the Frenchman lost his ur¬ 
banity and swore softly in his native tongue. 

Five, ten minutes passed. And now the two reached 


GOLD PLATE 


59 

the farther edge of the wooded park, and halted here, 
drawn back a little in the shadow of the trees. Be¬ 
fore them was a narrow breadth of lawn; and, be¬ 
yond, a great, rambling, turreted pile lay black even 
against the darkness, its castellated roof and points 
making a jagged fringe against the sky line. 

Runnells appeared suddenly to find vent for his ill 
humour in a savage chuckle. 

“What is it, Runnells?” demanded the Frenchman. 

“I was just thinking that in the five or six years 
since I was here with Lord Seeton, you know, I ain’t 
forgotten his nibs the Earl of Cloverley. I’d like 
to see his face in the morning! He’s a crabbed old 
bird. My word! He’ll die of apoplexy, he will! 
And if he don’t, he won’t be so keen on his ’ouse 
parties to visiting nabobs and cabinet ministers. He 
didn’t send into London and get his gold service out 
of the bank for us when we were here.” 

“Perhaps,” said the Frenchman gently, “he did not 
know that you were valeting Lord Seeton at the time 
—or perhaps it was because he did!” 

“Aw, chuck it!” said Runnells gruffly. He stared 
at the black, shadowy building for a minute. Then 
abruptly: “It’s two o’clock, ain’t it? You looked, 
didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” said I^aul Cremarre. “I looked when we 
left the motor. The time’s right. It was just ten 
minutes of two.” 

“Well, what the blinking ’ell’s the matter now, 
then?” complained Runnells. “The place is as black 
as a cat. They’re all in bed, aren’t they?” 

“That is not for me to say,” replied the Frenchman 
calmly. “We will wait, Runnells.” 


60 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Runnells, with another grunt, sat down on one of 
the bags, his back against a tree. The Frenchman 
remained standing, his eyes glued on the great house 
across the lawn. 

“Aye,” said Runnells after a moment, and chuckled 
savagely to himself again, “I’d give a bob or two, 
I would, to see the old boy in the morning! A fussy, 
nosey, old fidge-budget, that’s what he is! A-poking 
of his sharp little nose into everything, and always 
afraid some ’un won’t earn the measly screw he’s 
paying for work he’d ought to pay twice as much 
for! It’s no wonder he’s rich!” 

“You seem to have very pleasant recollections of 
your visit, Runnells,” said the Frenchman slyly. “I 
wonder what he caught you at?” 

“He didn’t catch me!” said Runnells defiantly. 
“Though" I’ll say this, that if I’d known then that I 
was ever coming back now, I’d have kept my eyes 
peeled, and he’d be going into mourning for more’n 
his blessed gold plate to-night! He didn’t bother me 
none, me being Lord Seeton’s man, but at that I saw 
enough of him so that the talk that went on in the 
servants’ hall wasn’t in any foreign language that I 
couldn’t tumble to. My eye!” said Runnells. “A rare 
state he’ll be in!” 

The Frenchman said nothing. 

The minutes dragged along. Runnells too had re¬ 
lapsed into silence. A quarter of an hour passed. 
Then Runnells commenced to mutter under his breath 
and move restlessly on his improvised seat; and then, 
getting up suddenly, he moved close over beside the 
Frenchman. 


GOLD PLATE 61 

“I say!” whispered Runnells uneasily. “I don’t like 
this, I don’t! What d’you suppose is up?” 

“A great deal, I have no doubt, my Runnells,” said 
the Frenchman imperturbably. “More perhaps than 
you and I could overcome in the same time—if at all.” 

“That’s all right!” returned Runnells. “I’m not say¬ 
ing it ain’t, but it’s getting creepy standing here and 
staring your eyes out. I’m beginning to see the trees 
moving around and coming at you, and in every bit 
of breeze the leaves are like a lot of bloody voices 
whispering in your ears. I wish to Gawd you hadn’t 
said anything about that night! It gives me the—” 

“Look!” said the Frenchman suddenly. 

From an upper window, out of the blackness of the 
building across the lawn, there showed a faint spot 
of light that held for a few seconds—and then, in 
quick succession, a series of little flashes came from 
the room within. 

The two men stood motionless, intent, staring at 
the window. 

The flashes ceased. 

The Frenchman reached out and laid his hand on 
Runnells’ arm. 

“No need for a repeat,” he said quickly. “You got 
it, didn’t you?” 

“My word!” exclaimed Runnells. “Two guards— 
butler’s pantry—all clear! Strike me pink!” 

The Frenchman laughed purringly under his breath. 

“Did I not say he was incomparable? Come on, 
then, Runnells—quickly now!” 

And now it was as though two shadows moved, flit¬ 
ting swiftly across the lawn, and along the edge of the 


6 2 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

building and around to the rear. And here they 
crouched before a doorway, and the Frenchman whis¬ 
pered: 

“Don’t be delicate about it, Runnells. This isn’t 
any inside job! Nick it up badly enough so’s a blind 
man could see where we got in.” 

“That’s what I’m doing,” said Runnells mechani¬ 
cally. His mind seemed obsessed with other things. 
“Two guards!” he muttered. And again: “Strike me 
pink!” 

And after a moment, with both door and frame elo¬ 
quent of the rough surgery that had been practised 
upon them, the door opened. 

The two men entered, and closed the door silently 
behind them. An electric torch stabbed suddenly 
through the blackness and played for a moment in¬ 
quisitively over its surroundings. 

“ ’Tain’t changed a bit, as I said when I saw the 
plan,” commented Runnells. 

They went on quickly. But where before there had 
been a steady play of the electric torch it winked now 
through the darkness only at intervals. A door 
opened here and there noiselessly; the footsteps of 
the men were cautious, wary, almost without sound. 
And then, as they halted finally, and the torch shot 
out its ray again, Runnells drew in his breath with a 
low, catchy, whistling sound. 

The torch disclosed a narrow serving pantry, and, 
on the floor at one side, a great metal box or chest— 
obviously the object of their visit. But Runnells for 
the moment was apparently not interested in the chest. 

“Look at that!” he breathed hoarsely—and pointed 
to the farther end of the pantry where a swinging door 


GOLD PLATE 63 

was ajar, and through which an upturned foot pro¬ 
truded. 

The Frenchman set his bags down beside the metal 
chest, moved swiftly forward, pushed the swinging 
door open, and stepped silently through into what was 
obviously the dining room. And Runnells, beside him, 
whispered hoarsely again, but this time with a sort 
of amazed admiration in his voice. 

“Gawd!” said Runnells. “Neat, I calls that! 
Neat! What?” 

Two men lay upon the floor, gagged, bound and 
apparently unconscious. One, from his livery, was a 
servant in the house; the other was in civilian clothes. 

Paul Cremarre pointed to the latter. 

“The man that came out from London with the 
box from the bank,” he observed complacently. He 
pushed Runnells back through the swinging door into 
the pantry. “Well, my Runnells, you were grumbling 
over a few minutes’ delay, let us see if we can be 
equally as expeditious and efficient with infinitely less 
to do.” He reached the chest and examined it. “Pad¬ 
locks, eh? Let me see if I can persuade them!” He 
bent over the chest, and from his pocket came a little 
kit of tools. 

Runnells stood silently by. There was no sound 
now save the breathing of the two men, and, as the 
minutes passed, an occasional faint, metallic rasp and 
click from Paul Cremarre at work. 

And then the Frenchman flung back the lid, and 
straightened up. 

“Quick now, Runnells—to work!” he said briskly. 
“Pere Mouche is waiting for his ragout!” 

“My eye!” said Runnells with enthusiasm, as the 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


64 

electric torch bored into the interior of the box. “Pipe 
it! I’ve served with the swells, I have, and Lord 
Seeton was one of the biggest of ’em, but I never saw 
the likes of this before. Gold plate to eat off of! 
My eye!” 

“They are very beautiful,” said the Frenchman 
judicially; “but it would be a sacrilege against art to 
appraise them in haste and in a poor light. Work 
quickly, Runnells! And do not fill any one of the bags 
too full. You will find it heavy. The four will hold 
it all comfortably.” 

“Gawd!” said Runnells eagerly, as he bent to his 
task. 

The men worked swiftly now, without words, trans¬ 
ferring the Earl of Cloverley’s priceless service of 
gold plate to the four travelling bags. The French¬ 
man, the quicker of the two, completed his task first, 
and locked his two bags. And then suddenly he 
touched Runnells on the shoulder. 

“Listen!” he whispered. “What’s that?” 

Faintly, scarcely audible, there came a curiously 
padded, swishing sound—like slippered feet. It came 
from the direction, not of the swing door where the 
two guards lay, but from beyond the door through 
which Runnells and the Frenchman had entered the 
pantry. 

“It’s some one coming, all right,” Runnells whis¬ 
pered back. 

“But only one” said the Frenchman instantly. 
“Quick! Finish your job—but don’t make a sound.” 
There was a sudden, vicious snarl in his whisper. 
“Pull that hat of yours down over your eyes. I’ll 
answer the door, as you English say!” 


GOLD PLATE 


65 

He moved back along the pantry with the noiseless 
tread of a cat, and took up his position against the 
wall at the edge of the closed door. From his pocket 
he drew a revolver. It was quite black, quite silent 
now—save for the approaching footsteps. 

Perhaps a minute passed. 

And then the door opened, and a light went on. 
A grey-whiskered little man in a dressing gown, with 
bare feet thrust into slippers, stood on the threshold. 
He cast startled eyes on a crouching figure in the 
centre of the pantry, the tell-tale travelling bags, the 
gaping treasure chest, and wrenched a revolver from 
the pocket of his dressing gown. But the Frenchman, 
reaching out, struck from the edge of the doorway. 
The revolver sailed ceilingwards from the other’s 
hand, and exploded in mid-air. And coincidently 
the Frenchman struck again—with the butt of his 
own weapon—and the man went limply to the floor. 

Runnells came staggering forward under the load 
of the bags. 

“Strike me dead!” he gasped, “if it ain’t the nosey 
old bird himself! Serves him proper—sneaking 
around to make sure he ain’t paying money for noth¬ 
ing, and hoping he’ll catch ’em asleep on sentry-go!” 

The Frenchman snatched up two of the bags. 

“Quick!” he said tersely. 

Captain Francis Newcombe raised his head from 
his pillow, and propped himself up on his elbow. A 
door nearby suddenly opened. Other doors were be¬ 
ing rapped upon. Voices came. 

The ex-captain of territorials sprang from his bed, 
thrust his feet into slippers, threw a bathrobe over 


66 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

his pajamas, opened his door and stepped out into the 
hall. Some one had already turned on a light. He 
found himself amongst a group of fellow guests, whose 
number was being constantly augmented. From other 
doorways, wary of their extreme dishabille, women’s 
faces peered out timidly—their voices, less restrained, 
demanding to know what was the matter, added an 
hysterical note to the scene. 

“A shot was certainly fired somewhere in the house, 
though I couldn’t place where it came from,” declared 
some one. “I am quite sure of it.” 

“There is no question about it,” corroborated an¬ 
other. “It woke me up, and I ran out here into the 
hall.” 

“The Earl is not in his room!” announced a third 
excitedly. “I’ve just been there.” 

“Ring for the servants!” screeched an elderly 
female voice. “Some one may be killed!” 

“For God’s sake!” snapped a man gruffly. “I didn’t 
hear it myself, but if a shot was fired it’s fairly ob¬ 
vious by now that it wasn’t fired up here! What are 
you standing around like a pack of sheep for?” 

“That’s what I was wondering,” said Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe softly to himself—and joined the now 
concerted rush down the stairway. 

Lights were going on all over the house now, and 
the men servants began to appear. The rush scurried 
from one room to another. A cry went up from some 
one ahead. It turned the rush into the dining room, 
and there, in their motley garbs, chorusing excited 
exclamations, the crowd surrounded the two gagged 
and bound guards. 

Then some one else shouted from the pantry that 


GOLD PLATE 


67 

the metal chest had been broken open, and that the 
gold service was gone. There was another rush in 
that direction. Captain Francis Newcombe accompa¬ 
nied this rush. On the floor lay a revolver. The 
ex-captain of territorials picked it up. 

“Hello!” he ejaculated. “It’s rather queer this has 
been left behind—or perhaps it belongs to one of the 
two out there in the dining room.” 

“No, sir,” said one of the servants at his elbow. 
“It’s the Earl’s, sir. I’d know it anywhere. And, 
begging your pardon, sir, it’s a bit strange that he 
hasn’t been seen since—” 

“Here he is!” cried a voice from beyond the farther 
pantry door. “Here, lend a hand! The Earl’s been 
hurt.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe aiding, the Earl was 
carried back to the dining room, and restoratives 
hastily applied. Here, the man in livery, released 
now, his voice weak and unsteady, was telling his 
story; his companion was still unconscious. 

“. . . Gawd knows,” the man was saying. “We 
was in the pantry, and Brown there ’e thought ’e 
’eard a sound out ’ere in the dining room. And ’e gets 
up and pushes the swinging door open and goes 
through, and a minute later I ’ears what I thinks is 
’im calling me. ‘ ’Ere, quick, Johnston!’ ’e says. And 
I goes through the door, and something bashes me 
over the ’ead, and I goes out. What ’appened 
though is as clear as daylight now. Brown goes 
through the door and gets hit on the ’ead, and I goes 
through the door and gets hit on the ’ead. And it 
wasn’t Brown as called to me, it was the blighter 
that did us in, and—” 


68 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

The Earl’s voice broke in suddenly. 

“I’m all right, I tell you!” he insisted weakly. 
“There were two of them . . . one behind the door 
knocked the revolver out of my hand as I fired, and 
smashed me over the head with something . . . bags, 
travelling bags for the plate . . . that’s the way 
they’re carrying it . . . I—” 

The Earl’s voice trailed off. 

“It can’t have been more than five minutes ago 
then,” said the man with the gruff voice, “for they 
were therefore in the house when the shot was fired. 
They can’t have got very far carrying that load. 
Quick now! We’ll search the park.” 

“But they wouldn’t attempt to carry it very far 
anyway,” objected some one. “They’d have a motor, 
of course.” 

“Exactly!” retorted the other. “But not near 
enough to the house to be heard. Did any one hear 
a motor after that shot was fired? Of course, not! 
We may get them before they get their motor. Also, 
we’ll use a motor too! Any one of the chauffeurs 
here?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered a man. 

“Good! Any one armed?” 

“I’ve got the Earl’s revolver,” said Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe. 

“Well, there’s the gun room,” said the man who 
had assumed command. “And you servants get lan¬ 
terns and things. Look lively, now! Sharp’s the 
word!” 

And for some reason Captain Francis Newcombe 
smiled grimly to himself, as he attached his person 


GOLD PLATE 69 

to the chauffeur, and, accompanied by three other 
pajama-clad guests, raced from the house. 

At the garage Captain Francis Newcombe appro¬ 
priated the front seat beside the chauffeur, his fellow 
guests scrambled into the tonneau, and a moment later 
the big car shot around the end of the house and 
began to sweep down the driveway. The ex-captain 
of territorials screwed around in his seat for a back¬ 
ward glance as they tore along. Every window in 
the great, rambling, castle-like edifice appeared to be 
alight; this caused a filmy, lighted zone without, and 
through this raced ghostly figures in bathrobes and 
dressing gowns that were almost instantly swallowed 
up in the shadows of the trees; and from amongst 
the trees, dancing in and out, like huge fireflies in their 
effect, there showed in constantly increasing numbers 
the glint of lanterns. 

But now the motor was at the lodge gates, nosing 
the main road, and the chauffeur pulled up. 

“Which way would you say, sir?” he asked anx¬ 
iously. 

“I’d vote for whichever is the shortest way to 
London—that’s to the left, isn’t it?” Captain Francis 
Newcombe responded promptly. He turned to his 
fellow guests. “I don’t know what you think about 
it?” 

“Yes,” one of the others answered, “I’d say that’s 
the way they’d most likely take.” 

“Very good, sir!” said the chauffeur. “Left, it is, 
and—” He broke short off. “There they are!” he 
cried excitedly. “Listen! They’re coming out of that 
lane there, over to the right!” He swung the motor 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


70 

sharply into the straight of the main road. “There 
they are! See ’em!” he cried again, as the headlights 
brought the rear of a speeding motor into view. “The 
old general back there in the house was right. They 
didn’t bring their motor any nearer for fear it would 
be heard. That’s where it has been—up the lane 
there. But we’ve got ’em now! This old girl’ll touch 
seventy and never turn a hair.” 

“Corking!” contributed Captain Francis Newcombe 
enthusiastically. “You’re sure of the seventy, are 
you?” 

“Rather!” exclaimed the chauffeur. “Look for 
yourself, sir. We’re overhauling them now like one 
o’clock.” 

The ex-captain of territorials for a moment stared 
intently along the headlights’ rays to where, gradu¬ 
ally, the other motor was coming more and more into 
focus. 

“By Jove, I believe you’re right!” he agreed heart¬ 
ily—and from the pocket of his dressing gown pro¬ 
duced the Earl’s revolver. 

The motor was lurching now with the speed. A 
hundred yards intervening between the flying cars 
diminished to seventy-five—to fifty. Still closer! The 
men in the tonneau clung to their seats. Twenty-five 
yards! 

Captain Francis Newcombe shouted to his com¬ 
panions over the roar and sweep of the wind. 

“I’ll take a pot at the beggars, and see if that’ll 
stop ’em!” he yelled. “Better chance over the top 
of the windshield, what?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe stood up, swayed with 
the car, fired twice in quick succession and once after 


GOLD PLATE 71 

a short pause over the top of the windshield—but the 
ex-captain of territorials’ mark seemed curiously com¬ 
prehensive in expanse, for his eyes were at the same 
time seaching the side of the road ahead. And now 
there showed at the end of the headlight’s path a 
hedgerow bordering close against the side of the road. 

Captain Francis Newcombe fired again, but as the 
car lurched now the ex-captain of territorials seemed 
momentarily to lose his balance, and with the lurch 
swayed heavily against the chauffeur’s arm. 

There was a startled yell from the chauffeur; a 
vicious swerve—and the big motor leaped at the 
hedge. Came a crash of splintering glass as Captain 
Francis Newcombe was pitched head first against the 
windshield; a rip and rend and tear as the motor 
bucked and plunged and twisted in its conflict with the 
thick, heavy hedge; and then a terrific jolt that in 
its train brought a full stop. 

And Captain Francis Newcombe, flung back and 
half out of the car, put his hands to his eyes and 
brought them away wet from a great gush of blood. 

“Carry on! Carry on!” he cried weakly. “You’ll 
never have a better chance to get them.” 

“My God!” screamed the chauffeur. “Carry on? 
We’re a bally wreck!” 

“What beastly luck!” murmured Captain Francis 
Newcombe—and lost consciousness. 


—V— 


“dear guardy” 


APTAIN FRANCIS NEWCOMBE, a bandage 



swathing his head from the tip of his nose up¬ 


ward, groped out with his hand for a glass that 
stood on the bedside table, succeeded only in upsetting 
it, and swore savagely under his breath. At the same 
moment, he heard the front door of his apartment 
open and close. 

“Runnells!” he shouted irritably. “D’ye hear, Run- 
nells? Come here!” 

A footstep came hurriedly along the hall, and the 
door of the bedroom opened. 

Paul Cremarre stood on the threshold. 

“It is not Runnells,” said the Frenchman, staring 
at the bed. “I used my key. I saw Runnells and 
another man go out a few minutes ago.” 

“You, Paul!” exclaimed Captain Francis New- 
combe quickly. “I did not expect you to return from 
France until to-morrow. I thought Runnells had for¬ 
gotten something and come back. That was the doc¬ 
tor with him. Runnells has gone out for supplies. 
They’ve only just brought me back from Cloverley’s 
this morning, and the place here was pretty well 
cleaned out of necessities.” 

The Frenchman moved over to the bedside, and 
grasped Captain Francis Newcombe’s hand. 

“Monsieur,” he said earnestly, “I am desolated to 

see you like this. How am I to tell you of my grati- 

72 


“DEAR GUARDY” 


73 

tude? How am I to tell you what I owe you? We 
would have been caught. In two or three more little 
minutes, Runnells and I would have been pouf!” 

“That seemed rather obvious,” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe dryly. 

“Bon Dieu!” ejaculated the Frenchman. “Yes! I 
heard from Runnells, of course—the whole story in 
code. There is only one man who would have done 
that. I, Paul Cremarre, will never forget it. Never! 

„ And I say again that I am desolated to see you like 
this. Runnells said your eyes were very badly in¬ 
jured.” 

“That is Runnells’ lack of balance in the use of 
English,” said the ex-captain of territorials. “There 
is nothing whatever the matter with my eyes . If I am 
blind for the moment, it is because my eyelids are kept 
shut by some damned medical method of torture, and 
because of this bandage. When I took a header into 
the broken windshield, I got a bit of a cut that begin¬ 
ning with the bridge of my nose had a go straight 
across on each side just under the eyebrows. They’ve 
made a bit of a fuss over it, wouldn’t let me come 
home until now, and I must still be tucked up in bed, 
but—” 

“It is more than you make out,” said the French¬ 
man gravely. “I know that. But that your eyes are 
saved—that is luck!” 

“Quite so!” Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged 
his shoulders. “And you?—speaking of luck.” 

“The best!” replied the Frenchman in a low, quick 
tone. “Pere Mouche has had his ragout, and after¬ 
wards another that was so hot that—would you be¬ 
lieve it?—it melted the dishes. And, besides, he has 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


74 

had a stroke of good fortune in getting rid of some 
other stock, a lot of it, on the continent. There will 
be a nice bank account in a day or so—to-morrow, if 
you want any.” His voice grew suddenly less buoyant. 
“But just the same, it is well that we are taking a 
holiday. It has caused a furor. The papers, the 
Earl, Scotland Yard—how they buzz! And the Pre¬ 
fecture more suspicious than ever! Your English 
journals are like spoiled children. They will not stop 
crying, and they are very bad tempered about it. This 
morning, for instance. I have one here. Shall I read 
to you what it says?” 

“Good heavens—no!” expostulated Captain Francis 
Newcombe hastily. “Everybody from the Earl down 
to Runnells has read that stuff to me for a week! If 
you want to do anything that smacks of intelligence 
you can get me another drink in place of the one I 
knocked over when you came in—you know where the 
Scotch is; and if you want to do any reading see if 
there is any mail for me. I mentioned letters but the 
doctor said no. However, the doctor is gone, so look 
on the desk in the living room.” 

“All right,” said the Frenchman, as he turned 
briskly away. u \Jn petit coup is decidedly in order 
this morning. I will have one with you.” 

He was back presently from his errand. He filled 
the glasses, and placed one in Captain Francis New- 
combe’s hand. 

“Salut, mon capitaine! }) he said. “Here’s to the cash 
the little Pere Mouche is getting ready for us—a fat, a 
very nice fat little dividend!” 

“Good!” said the ex-captain of territorials. “How 
about the mail? Any letters?” 


“DEAR GUARDY” 75 

“I’ve got them here,” Paul Cremarre answered. 
“There were only three.” 

“Well, what are they?” demanded Captain Francis 
Newcombe. 

The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in 
his hand. 

“A city letter from Hipplewaite, Jones & Simpkins, 
Solicitors—” 

Captain Francis Newcombe chuckled. 

“That’s about a hen Runnells ran over a month or 
so ago. Extremely valuable fowl! Poultry show 
stock, and all that, you know. What has the price 
risen to now?” 

Paul Cremarre tore the letter open. 

“Two pounds, ten and six,” he said. 

“Still much too cheap!” grinned Captain Francis 
Newcombe. “The man is simply robbing himself. 
Chuck it away before Runnells sees it. He could have 
settled for a pound three weeks ago. What’s next?” 
The Frenchman examined another envelope. 

“City letter again,” he said. “From ‘The Sabbath 
House.’ ” 

“Ah, yes!” said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. 
“Most worthy object. Gave ’em ten quid last month. 
A mission down in Whitechapel, you know. Elevation 
of the unelevated, and all that. Shocking conditions! 
I must see that your name goes on that list.” 

“Shall I tear it up?” drawled the Frenchman. 

“Yes,” said Captain Newcombe. 

The Frenchman remained silent for a moment. 
“Well?” prompted the ex-captain of territorials. 
“You said there were three.” 

“I have put the other on the table beside you,” said 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


76 

the Frenchman. “It is intime. The stamp from Amer¬ 
ica. The handwriting of a lady. You will read it 
yourself when you are able.” 

“Able!” echoed Captain Francis Newcombe, with 
sudden asperity. “I won’t be able to do anything for 
another week, let alone read. Open it! You know 
damned well it’s only from my ward in America. And 
since I’m going out there as soon as I’m fit again, I’m 
rather keen to know what her immediate plans are. 
She was going to a school friend’s home for the sum¬ 
mer. I’ve explained to you before that her mother 
did a rather big thing for me once, and I’m trying to 
repay the debt. Open it, and read it to me. There’s 
nothing private about it.” 

“But, certainly!” agreed the Frenchman, as he 
opened the letter. “It is only that you are both young, 
and that the thought crossed my mind you—” 

“Read the letter!” snapped Captain Francis New¬ 
combe. “If there’s any enclosure for her mother, you 
can lay that aside.” 

“There is no enclosure,” returned the Frenchman 
good-humouredly. “Well, then, listen! I read: 

The Corals, 

Manwa Island, Florida Keys, 

Tuesday, June 30th. 

Dear Guardy: 

You knew, of course, I was going to visit Dora Marlin 
and her father, Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, this summer, so you 
won’t be altogether surprised at the above address. You see, 
we came here a little sooner than I expected, so that your last 
letter, forwarded on from New York, has just reached me. 

I am wild with delight to know that you have decided to 
come out to America for a visit. I showed your letter at once 


“DEAR GUARDY” 


77 

to Dora and Mr. Marlin, and they absolutely insist that you 
come here as their guest. You will, won’t you? You old 
dear! You’ll have to, else you won’t see me—so there! You 
see, we’re on an island in the Florida Keys, and it’s ever so far 
from the mainland, and there’s no other place on it to stay 
except with us. I wonder, I wonder if you’ll know me? I’m 
not the little Polly I was, you know. 

Oh, guardy, it’s simply wonderful here! The house is 
really a castle, and it’s built mostly of coral, and is so pretty; 
and the foliage is a dream—the whole island, and it’s really an 
awfully big one, is just like a huge garden. And, too, it’s just 
like a little world all of your own. The servants are mostly 
negroes, with pickaninnies running around, and they live in 
jolly little bungalows, ever and ever so many of them, that 
peep out of the trees at you everywhere you go. And then 
there is the aquarium. It’s Mr. Marlin’s hobby. I couldn’t 
begin to describe it. I never knew such beautiful and won¬ 
derful and queer creatures existed in the sea. 

Dora’s a dear, of course. I’m sure you’ll lose your heart to 
her at once. And I’ve already grown so fond of Mr. Marlin, 
and the more so, perhaps, because Dora is frightfully worried 
about him. I am afraid there is something very serious the 
matter with his mind, though a great deal of the time he ap¬ 
pears to be quite normal. I don’t understand it, of course, be¬ 
cause it is all about the financial conditions in the world; but 
anyway— 

Paul Cremarre stopped reading aloud abruptly. 
There was a moment of silence while his eyes swept 
swiftly on to the end of the paragraph. 

“Well?” inquired Captain Francis Newcombe. 
“What’s the matter? Have you lost your place?” 

The Frenchman drew in his breath sharply. 

"Bon Dieu!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Listen to 
this! It is the lamp of Aladdin! It is the Isle of 


78 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Croesus! We are rich! It is superb! It is mag¬ 
nificent! Listen! I read again: 

—he has a great sum of money in banknotes here; half a 
million dollars, he said. He showed it to me. It was hard to 
believe there was so much. Why, you could just make a lit¬ 
tle bundle of it and put it under your arm. I asked him why 
he had it here, and he patted it and smiled at me, and told me 
it was the only safe thing to do. And then he tried to explain 
a lot of things to me about money that I couldn’t understand 
at all. 

Paul Cremarre looked up, and waved the letter 
about jubilantly. 

“Yes, yes!” he cried. “I am awake! See! I pinch 
myself! It is amazing! In banknotes! In American 
money! That is valuable, eh? And a little bundle 
that one could put under one’s arm!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s lips were a straight 
line under the bandages. 

“I’m afraid I don’t get the point,” he said coldly. 

“The point!” Paul Cremarre’s face was flushed 
now, his eyes burned with excitement. “But, sacre 
nom, the point is—a half million dollars in cash. And 
so easy! It is ours for the taking. The man is—ha, 

* 7 es > ^ learned something in the war from the 
Americans—he is what they call a nut!” He tapped 

his forehead. And from the nut we extract the 
kernel! Yes?” 

I think not! said Captain Francis Newcombe 
evenly. 

* The Frenchman stared incredulously. 
But it must be that you joke—a little joke of ex- 


“DEAR GUARDY” 


79 

quisite irony. Yes, of course; for what could be better 
—or suit us better? We were about to lay low for a 
while because it was becoming too hot for us on this 
side of the water—and, presto, like a gift of the gods, 
there immediately awaits us fortune on the other 
side!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe suddenly thrust out a 
clenched hand toward the other. 

“No!” he said in a low voice. 

“Bon Dieu!” gasped the Frenchman helplessly. 
“But I do not understand.” 

“Then I’ll try to make it plain,” said Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe in level tones. “There are limits to 
what even I will do, and it is well over that limit here. 
To go there as a guest of—” 

“Monsieur was a guest, I understand, of the Earl 
of Cloverley a few days ago,” interrupted the French¬ 
man quickly. 

“Yes!” said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. 
“And the guest before that of many others. But I 
did not have a ward to consider upon whose reputa¬ 
tion I was to trade, and which I would wreck. Do you 
understand that?” 

“Damn!” said the Frenchman. “There is always a 
woman! Damn all women, I sayi” 

“You may damn them as much as you please,” said 
Captain Francis Newcombe, a grim savagery in his 
voice; “but there’ll be none of that sort of thing here. 
And you keep your hands off! Do you also under¬ 
stand that? There’s going to be one decent thing in 
my life!” He stretched out his clenched hand again. 
“Curse these bandages! I wish I could see your face! 
But I tell you now that if any attempt is made to get 


8 o 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


that money I’ll crush you with as little compunction 
as I would crush a snake. Is that plain?” 

“But, monsieur—monsieur!” protested the French¬ 
man. “That is enough! Why should you say such 
things to me? I am distressed. And it is not just. 
You asked me to read a letter, and I read it. That 
was not my fault. And surely it was but natural, what 
I said. Has it not been our business to do that sort 
of thing together? I did not know how you felt about 
this. But now that I know it is at an end. I have 
forgotten it, my friend. It is as though it had never 
been.” 

“All right, then!” said the ex-captain of territorials 
in a softer tone. “As you say, that ends it.” 

Shall I go on with the letter?” asked the French¬ 
man pleasantly. 

“No,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “Give it to 
me. I’ve had enough of it for now.” He smiled sud¬ 
denly, as the Frenchman placed the letter in his hand. 

I m afraid I m a bit off colour this morning, Paul. 
Sorry! The trip down from Cloverley’s has done me 
in a bit, and my eyes hurt like hell. I’d give a hundred 
pounds for a few good hours of sleep.” 

Try, then,” suggested the Frenchman. “I’ll be 
where I can hear you if you want anything. I won’t go 
out until Runnells gets back.” 

“Good enough!” agreed Captain Francis New¬ 
combe; and then abruptly, as the Frenchman rose from 
his chair: Speaking of Runnells, Paul—you will oblige 

me by saying nothing to him of the contents of this 
letter.” 

“I will say nothing to any one, let alone Runnells,” 


“DEAR GUARDY” 81 

replied the Frenchman quietly. “It is already for¬ 
gotten. Call, if you want anything.” 

“I will,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

The Frenchman’s footsteps died away in an outer 
room. 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s fingers tightened 
around the letter he held in his hand, crushed it, and 
carefully smoothed it out again. He lay there motion¬ 
less then, his face turned away from the door, his lips 
thinned, his under jaw outthrust a little. 

“Three years in the planting!” he muttered to him¬ 
self. “It has ripened well! Very well! Paul—bah! 
What does it matter, after all, that he read the letter? 
I am not sure but that he has already outlived his use¬ 
fulness—and Runnells too!” He thrust the letter 
suddenly underneath his pillow. “Damn the infernal 
pain!” he gritted between his teeth. “If I could only 
sleep for a bit—sleep—sleep !” 

And for a time he tossed restlessly from side to 
side, and then presently he slept. 

Runnells, in response to a demand from the bed¬ 
room, brought in the luncheon tray. 

“You’ve had a rare whack of sleep,” he said, as he 
laid the tray down on the table beside the bed. 

“What time is it?” inquired Captain Francis New¬ 
combe. 

“Three o’clock,” said Runnells. “Here, sit up a 
bit, and I’ll bolster the pillows in behind you.” 

“Where’s Paul?” asked the ex-captain of terri¬ 
torials. 

Runnells did not answer immediately. In arranging 


82 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

the pillows he had found a letter. He looked at it 
coolly. It ought to be worth looking at if Captain 
Francis Newcombe kept it under his pillow. 

“Well?” snapped the ex-captain of territorials. 

Runnells placed the letter on the table within easy 
reach beside the tray, pulled the table a little closer, 
and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“He went out after I got back,” said Runnells. 
“Said he’d sleep here to-night, that’s all I know. This 
is a bit of stew.” 

Runnells, with one hand presented a forkful of meat 
to Captain Francis Newcombe’s lips, and with the 
other hand possessed himself of the letter again. 

Runnells read steadily now. He conveyed food to 
Captain Francis Newcombe’s mouth mechanically. 

Damn it!” spluttered the ex-captain of territorials 
suddenly. Do you take me for a boa constrictor? 
I can’t bolt food as fast as that!” 

Runnells’ eyes were curiously, feverishly alight. 

Yesterday you said I went too slow,” he mumbled. 

“In a great many respects, Runnells,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe tartly, “you are an irritating, tact¬ 
less ass. But not to be too hard on you, and 
especially in view of the last week, I have to admit 
you possess one redeeming feature that I am bound to 
give you credit for.” 

What’s that?” Runnells was at the end of the 
letter now. He stared at the bandaged face with eyes 
a little narrowed, and with lips that twisted in a 
strange, speculative smile. 

A fidelity of the same uninitiative quality that a 
dog has, said Captain Francis Newcombe, motioning 


“DEAR GUARDY” 83 

for more to eat. “And in that sphere you’re a success. 
I hope you’ll always stick to it.” 

Runnells made no answer. His eyes were on the 
letter again—re-reading it. 

The lunch proceeded in silence. 

At its conclusion, Runnells stood up, slipped the 
letter behind the pillow again, and gathered the various 
dishes together on the tray. 

“America, eh?” confided Runnells to himself, as he 
carried the tray from the room. “So that’s the bit of 
all right, is it? And Paul don’t know anything about 
it! And the captain don’t know—I know! Half a 
million dollars! Strike me pink!” 


—VI— 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 

I T was a night of storm. The rain, wind driven, 
swept the decks in gusty, stinging sheets; the big 
liner rolled and pitched, disgruntled, in the heavy 

sea. 

Within the smoking room at a table in the corner 
Captain Francis Newcombe turned from a companion 
who sat opposite to him to face a steward who had 
just arrived with a tray. 

“How about this, steward?” he asked. “Is this 
weather going to delay our getting in? I understand 
that if we don’t pass quarantine early enough they hold 
us up all night.” 

“So they do, sir,” the steward answered. “But this 
isn’t holding us up any, a bit nasty though it is. We’ll 
be docked at New York by two o’clock to-morrow 
afternoon at the latest. Thank you, sir!” He pock¬ 
eted a generous tip as he departed. 

The young man at the opposite side of the table, 
dark-eyed, dark-haired, with fine, clean-cut features, a 
man of powerful physique, whose great breadth of 
shoulder was encased in an immaculate dinner jacket, 
lifted the glass the steward had just set before him. 
“Here’s how, captain!” he smiled. 

“The same, Mr. Locke!” returned Captain Francis 
Newcombe cordially. 

Howard Locke extracted a cigarette from his case, 
and lighted it. 


84 



THE WRITING ON THE WALL 85 

“The end of as chummy a crossing as I’ve ever 
had,” he said. “Thanks to you. And I’ve been lucky 
all round. Cleaned up well in London, and ’ll get a 
pat on the back for it from dad—and a holiday, which, 
without throwing any bouquets at myself, I’ll say I’ve 
earned. I think I’ll do a bit of coast cruising in that 
little old fifty-footer of mine that I’ve filled your ear 
full of during the last few days. Wow! And not 
least of all my luck was Joyce introducing me to you 
at lunch that day in the club.” 

“It’s very good of you to say so,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe. 

“Good, nothing!” exclaimed the young American. 
“I mean it! You’ve made the trip for me. And now 
how about your plans? I know you’re going on South 
somewhere, for you mentioned it the other day. But 
what about New York? You’ll be a little while there, 
and I feel pleasurably responsible for the stranger in 
the strange land. The house is barred, for the family 
is away for the summer; but there are the clubs, 
and I’d like to put you up and show you around a 
bit.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe studied the young man’s 
face for a moment—he smiled disarmingly as he did 
so. Howard Locke was the son of a man of great 
wealth, the head of a great financial house, and of a 
family whose social status left nothing to be desired— 
and America was the Land of Promise! But one could 
be too eager! 

“I’d like to,” he said heartily; “but I fancy I’ve still 
quite a little trip ahead of me, and I’m afraid I’m a 
bit overdue already. As you say, I mentioned that I 
was going South. To be precise, I’m going down 


86 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Florida way—or do you call it up?—as' the guest of a 
Mr. Marlin.” 

Howard Locke removed the cigarette from his lips. 

“Marlin?” he repeated. “Not Jonathan P. Marlin, 
by any chance?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe nodded. 

“Whew!” The young American whistled softly 
under his breath. 

Captain Francis Newcombe lifted his eyebrows in¬ 
quiringly. 

“You know him?” he asked. 

“No,” Locke answered. “Not personally. I know 
of him, of course. Everybody does. And I don’t 
want to be nosey and butt in, and you can heave that 
glass at me by way of reply if you like, but how in the 
world do you happen to know him?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled. 

“I don’t,” he said. “My ward, who has been over 
here at school for the past few years, has been a class¬ 
mate of Miss Marlin, and she is spending part of the 
summer with them.” 

“Oh, I see!” Howard Locke tapped the end of his 
cigarette on the edge of an ash tray once or twice, 
and glanced in evident indecision at his companion. 

“Go on!” invited Captain Francis Newcombe. 
“What is it?” 

Howard Locke laughed a little awkwardly. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing very 
much. And I’m afraid it’s not done, as you English 
put it, for me to say anything, since he is your pros¬ 
pective host; still, as you say you are not personally 
acquainted with him yourself, I think perhaps you 
ought to know just the same. I haven’t anything defi- 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 87 

nite to go on, no authoritative source of information, 
but it is rather generally understood that old Marlin’s 
gone a bit queer in the head.” 

“Really!” ejaculated Captain Francis Newcombe. 
“Good lord! I had no idea of any such thing! And 
my ward’s on this island of his in the Florida Keys, 
and—” 

“There’s nothing whatever to be alarmed about,” 
said the young American hastily. “It’s nothing like 
that. He’s as harmless as you are, or as I am. It’s 
only on one subject—money. I suppose he was one 
of the wealthiest men in America at the close of the 
war, and since then he’s been wiped out.” 

“Wiped out?” Captain Francis echoed incredulously. 

“Comparatively, of course,” said Howard Locke. 
“I don’t know how much he has got left—nobody does. 
It’s been the talk of the financial district. There isn’t 
a share of stock anywhere to be found standing in his 
name. He sold everything; and how much was used 
to cover losses, and how much remained to himself no 
one knows. You see, the last few years, to put it 
mildly, have been hell in a financial and business way. 
The foreign exchange situation has been a big factor 
in helping to play the devil with all sorts of holdings. 
Values have depreciated; the market has gone smash. 
Industries that were big dividend payers haven’t been 
able to meet their overhead. You may not believe it, 
but hundreds and hundreds have taken their money 
out of the banks, and, insisting on being paid in Amer¬ 
ican gold certificates, when they couldn’t get the actual 
gold itself, have horded it in the safe deposit vaults. 
God knows why! Just instances the general panicky 
conditions everywhere, I suppose. The aftermath of 


88 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


the war! History repeating itself, so the writers on 
economics tell us. Small consolation! However! 
Marlin met with crash after crash. He lost millions. 
He’s not a young man, you know, and it evidently got 
him finally in the shape of a monomania. Finance! 
You understand? He was on a dozen big directorates 
and his trouble began to show itself in the shape of an 
obsession that everything should be turned into cash, 
buildings, plants, everything—into American cash. 
Naturally he was quietly and unostentatiously 
dropped. Poor devil! Certainly, his losses were ter¬ 
rific. I don’t know whether he’s got anything left or 
not.” 

By Jove!” said Captain Francis Newcombe 
gravely. “Pm glad you told me. Pretty rough that, 
I call it.” 

“1 es,” said Locke. “It is! Damned rough! I 
think everybody was sorry for him. And so he’s down 
there at this place of his now on an island in the 
Florida Keys, eh?” 

Yes,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

The young American selected another cigarette 
from his case, rolled it slowly between his fingers— 
and leaned suddenly across the table. 

Look here! he said. “I’ve an idea. I’m going 
cruising somewhere—why not there? The Florida 
coast hits me down to the ground. How would you 
like to make the trip with me?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe leaned back in his chair, 
and laughed a little. 

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I—” 

“Oh, come on, be a sport!” urged Howard Locke 
enthusiastically. “The more I think of it, the better I 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 89 

like it. I’ll have good company on a cruise, and you’ll 
enjoy it. And it’s quite all right so far as my showing 
up there is concerned. It isn’t as though I were foist¬ 
ing myself on their hospitality. The little old boat’s 
my home; and, for that matter, I can drop you and 
sail solemnly away. You’ll have the time of your life. 
What’s the objection?” 

“Time,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “It 
would take a long while, wouldn’t it?” 

“Well,” said Howard Locke, “I wouldn’t guarantee 
to get you there as fast as a train would, but what 
difference does a few days make? It isn’t as though 
it were a business engagement you had to keep.” 

“No; that’s so,” acknowledged Captain Francis 
Newcombe. “And frankly I must admit it appeals to 
me; but”—he looked at his watch—“I don’t know 
whether I can manage it or not. Anyway, I promise 
to sleep on it. It’s after twelve, and time to turn in. 
What do you say?” 

“That suits me,” said Howard Locke, “so long as 
you promise to say ‘yes’ in the morning.” 

“We’ll see,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

The two men rose from their chairs, and, crossing 
the room where several games of bridge were in prog¬ 
ress, stepped out on the deck. And here, their re¬ 
spective cabins lying in different directions, they bade 
each other good-night. 

But now Captain Francis Newcombe, despite the 
pitching of the ship and the general unpleasantness of 
the night, appeared to be in no hurry. He walked 
slowly. It was the lee side, and under the covered 
deck he was protected from the rain. He looked be¬ 
hind him. The young American, evidently in no mind 


90 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

for anything but the snugger shelter of his cabin, had 
disappeared. The deck was deserted. 

The ex-captain of territorials stepped to the rail, 
and stared out into the murk, through which there 
showed, like pencilled streaks on a black background, 
the white, irregular shapes of the cresting waves. The 
howl of the wind, the boom and crash of the seas made 
thunderous tumult, conflict, turmoil. And he laughed. 
And spume, flying, struck his face. And he laughed 
again because a sort of fierce exaltation was upon him, 
and he found something akin in these wild, untram- 
elled voices of the elements—a challenge, far-flung and 

savage, and contemptuous of all who would say them 
nay. 

And then his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his 
fingers played a soft tattoo upon the dripping rail. 

I wonder!” said Captain Francis Newcombe to 
himself. “I wonder if it suits my book?” 

His mind began to moil over the problem in a cold, 
unprejudiced, judicial way. Was the balance for or 
against the acceptance of the young American’s offer? 
To arrive at Marlin’s place in the company of a man 
of the standing of Howard Locke was an endorsation 
that spoke for itself. But he already had an unquali¬ 
fied endorsation. Polly supplied it. Still, he could not 
have too much of that sort of thing. Would, then, 
the man be in the way, a hindrance, a complication? 
He could not answer that off-hand, but it did not seem 
to be a vital point. What he proposed to do on 
Manwa Island in a general way he knew well enough; 
but just how he proposed to do it, and just how long 
he proposed to stay there, a week, or a month, or 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 91 

longer, only local conditions as he found them must 
decide. 

He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. Neither How¬ 
ard Locke nor any other man would make of himself a 
hindrance—hindrances were removed. But there was 
another point, an outstanding point. After Manwa 
Island there was—America. True, he had brought 
Runnells with him, while he had said good-bye to Paul 
Cremarre, who had departed for Paris, and thereafter 
for such destination as his fancy prompted, for the 
period, mutually agreed upon, of six months—but he, 
Captain Francis Newcombe, was not prepared to say 
when, or where, if ever, he intended to utilise, in the 
same manner as before, the services of either Runnells 
or the Frenchman again. Certainly not in America, 
if a lone hand promised better there! He proposed 
to play a lone hand at this Manwa Island. It might 
well be that he would continue to do so thereafter. 
And in America an intimacy with Howard Locke, such 
as this projected cruise offered, would help amazingly 
to spread and germinate the seed already sown by 
Polly Wickes. Polly Wickes was his private property! 

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled confidentially at 
the angry waters. 

“Yes,” he said, “I think it is quite possible that he 
may be able to persuade me.” 

He turned abruptly away from the rail, making for 
his cabin, which was on the deck above and on the 
opposite side of the ship. And presently, halting in 
the lighted alleyway before his door, he turned the key 
in the lock and entered. 

And then, just across the threshold, he stood for the 


92 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

fraction of a second like a man dazed—and the door, 
torn from his hand by a fierce gust of wind, slammed 
with a bang behind him. The cabin was on the wind¬ 
ward side, the window was open, and outside the win¬ 
dow, indistinct, shadowy, as though almost it might 
be an hallucination of the mind, a man’s form suddenly 
loomed up. There was a flash, the roar of a revolver 
shot, muffled, almost drowned out in the thunder of the 
storm—and Captain Francis Newcombe lay flat upon 
the cabin floor. 

The next instant he flung himself over beside the 
settee, and protected here from another shot, raised his 
head. The form had vanished from the window. 

A cold fury seized upon the man. From his pocket 
he drew his own revolver, and covering the window as 
he backed swiftly for the door, wrenched the door open 
and made for the first egress to the deck. Too late, 
of course! The deck was deserted. He stood there, 
grim-faced, tight-lipped, straining his eyes up and down 
the length of the deck through the darkness, the rain 
beating into his face. 

And then he began to run again—like a dog seeking 
scent. There were a dozen places up here where a 
man might hide—the juts of the superstructure, the 
great, grotesque, looming ventilators, the openings 
through to the other side of the deck. But he found 
nothing, no one—there was only the deserted deck, the 
drenching rain. And the howl of the wind metamor¬ 
phosed itself into ironical shrieks. 

Captain Francis Newcombe returned along the deck, 
and halted outside his cabin window. He examined it 
critically. It had been pried open from the outside— 
the marks were distinctly indented on the sill, as 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 93 

though a jimmy, or iron bar of some kind, had been 
used. 

He stared at it, his jaws clamped. It was unpleas¬ 
ant. Some one on the ship had deliberately, premedi- 
tatively, attempted to murder him. There was some¬ 
thing of hideous malignancy in it. To pry the window 
open, and wait there patiently in the storm for the sole 
purpose of ending a man’s life! It hadn’t succeeded 
because intuition, or, perhaps, better, an exaggerated 
instinct of self-preservation born of the years in which 
he had flaunted defiance of every law in the face of his 
fellow men, had prompted him, though taken un¬ 
awares, to act even quicker than his assailant who lay 
in wait, and to fling himself instantly to the floor of 
the cabin. 

Who was it? Why was it? Who, on board the 
ship, had any incentive, any reason, any cause to mur¬ 
der him? Save for Locke, the young American, he 
knew no one on board, barring Runnells, of course, 
except in the ordinary, casual way of shipboard ac¬ 
quaintanceship struck up since the ship had left Liver¬ 
pool. It could not be any one of these—at least, not 
logically. And of them all, it certainly could not be 
Locke. The ship’s company? Absurd! Runnells? 
Still more absurd! And so he had eliminated every - 
body, and yet somebody had done it! 

He began to work with the window. Reaching in¬ 
side he drew the curtains carefully together, and then 
lowered the window itself. When he re-entered his 
room, even providing he were still being watched, he 
would not be exposed in the same way as a target 
again! 

He stood there now in the rain, his face hard, with 


94 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

savage, drooping lines at the corners of his mouth. 
Was he being watched now? Was there a cat-and- 
mouse game in play? Well, two could play at that! 
He, too, could prowl about the ship. His bed held 
little of invitation for him! 

He went to Runnells’ room. The man was in bed 
asleep. That definitely disposed of Runnells! 

He returned and made another circuit of the upper 
deck; and then, forward, by one of the open compan- 
ionways, he descended to the deck below. His mind 
was in a strange state of turmoil. It was not physical 
fear. It was as though a host of haunting shapes 
were being marshalled against him, were rising up out 
of the past to disturb him, jeering at him, mocking 
him, plaguing him with sinister possibilities. The past 
was peopled with shapes, shapes that had lived in the 
world of Shadow Varne; shapes which might well be 
accused of this attempt to do away with him, could 
they but take tangible form, could their presence but 
be reconciled with the here and now, with this ship, 
with these damp, slippery decks, with the drive and 
sting of the rain, with the scream and howl of the 
wind, with the plunge and roll of the great liner, the 
buffeting of the waves—if they could but be reconciled 
with material things. He clenched his hands. He 
was not as a man who could search his memory in 
vain for one who owed him such a debt as this; it was, 
rather, that his memory became crowded and confused 
with the number that came thronging in upon it, each 
vying with the others to shriek the loudest its boasted 
claim to the attempted retribution to-night. 

He set his teeth. Where had he failed? When 
had he left ajar behind him the door of the past that 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 95 

allowed any one of these ghostly shapes to slip through 
upon his heels? Ghostly? There was little of the 
ghostly here! He must have been recognised by some 
one on board the ship. It seemed incredible, impossi¬ 
ble—but it was equally incontrovertible. Who? And 
what did it portend? To-night he had won the first 
hand, but— 

Locke! He was standing beside the smoking room 
window. Locke was in there, his back turned, stand¬ 
ing beside one of the bridge tables, watching a game. 
It was a little strange! He had parted with Locke out 
here on the deck—and Locke was going to his cabin 
to turn in. 

For an instant Captain Francis Newcombe held 
there, his brows knitted in a perplexed frown. How¬ 
ard Locke! It was preposterous; it would not hold 
water; it was childish—unless the young American 
were some one other than he pretended to be, and there 
wasn’t a chance in a thousand of that! His mind 
worked swiftly now. Locke had been introduced to 
him at lunch in the club by a fellow member a few days 
before they had sailed. That certainly vouched for 
the man sufficiently, didn’t it? Locke had volunteered 
the information that he had booked passage on this 
ship, and they had not met again until here on ship¬ 
board. If Locke was what he passed for, if he was 
of one of the best families of America, the son of a 
millionaire, a clever, hard-working and ambitious 
young business man, it was untenable to assume for an 
instant that he was a potential murderer. It was even 
laughable. There wasn’t even that one chance in a 
thousand that he could be any other than he seemed, 
not a chance in a million, and yet— 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


96 

“Chance,” said Captain Francis Newcombe, “is the 
playground of fools. We will see!” 

He turned and ran swiftly along the deck. A min¬ 
ute later he was standing before one of the two doors 
of the young American’s suite. A little metal instru¬ 
ment was in his hand, but it went instantly back into 
his pocket—the door was not locked. He stepped in¬ 
side and closed the door behind him. Locke had one 
of the best and most expensive reservations on the 
ship—a suite of two rooms and a private bath, but 
there was a separate door from each of these rooms 
to the passageway without, since, naturally, they were 
not always booked en suite. And the room he stood 
in now was the one Locke used for his sitting room, 
and always as the entrance to the suite itself. 

Captain Francis Newcombe was quick in every 
movement now. He ran through to the other room— 
the bedroom—closing the connecting door behind him. 
He switched on the light, and turned at once to the 
door that gave here on the passageway. The key was 
in the lock, and the door was locked. He unlocked it. 

The next instant he had a portmanteau open and was 
delving into its contents. It contained nothing but 
clothing—shirts, collars, ties, underwear, and the like. 
He opened another, and still another with the same 
result. Papers! It was the man’s papers that inter¬ 
ested him. 

He snarled a little savagely to himself. There was 
nothing for it then but the steamer trunk under the 
couch—and Locke might be back at any moment. He 
dragged out the trunk—and snarled again savagely. 
It was locked. He began to work with it now, swiftly, 
deftly, with the little steel picklock. It yielded finally, 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 97 

and he flung back the lid. Yes, this was what he 
wanted! On the top lay a leather despatch case. But 
this also was locked. Again Captain Francis New- 
combe set to work—and presently was glancing 
through a mass of papers and documents that the des¬ 
patch case had contained: letters from the father’s 
firm to the son, signed by Locke senior; a letter of 
credit in substantial amount; an underwriting agree¬ 
ment with a London house for the floating of a huge 
issue of bonds, signed and sealed, the tangible evidence 
of young Locke’s successful trip, of which he had 
spoken. Incontrovertible evidence that Howard Locke 
was no other than he appeared to be, and— 

Captain Francis Newcombe sprang for the electric- 
light switch, and turned off the light. There was 
Locke now! The pound of the ship, the noise of the 
storm, had of course deadened any sound in the pas¬ 
sageway, but he could hear the other at the sitting 
room door. There was no time to replace the despatch 
case and push the trunk back under the couch, let alone 
attempt to lock either one. The man was coming 
now—across the other room. Captain Francis New¬ 
combe laid the despatch case silently down on the floor, 
opened the door as silently, stepped out into the pas¬ 
sageway and ran noiselessly along it. 

He reached the door of his own cabin. His ex¬ 
cursion to Locke’s cabin and the evidence of intrusion 
he had been forced to leave behind him had put an 
end to any more “prowling” on his part to-night. 
Locke would probably kick up a fuss. There would 
be a very strict search for “prowlers!” He snapped 
his jaws together viciously. That did not at all please 
him. He would very much prefer that the would-be as- 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


98 

sassin should have another opportunity of showing his 
hand, that the man would be inspired to make a second 
attempt. He, Captain Francis Newcombe, would be 
a little better prepared this time! 

He pushed open the door of his cabin cautiously— 
and for an instant stood motionless, a little back from 
the threshold, and at one side. There was always the 
possibility, remote though it might be, that while he 
had been out searching for the other, the man had 
slipped inside and, waiting, had made of the cabin a 
death trap which he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was 
now invited to enter. It was not likely. It would 
require a little more nerve than the firing of a shot 
through the window, and then running away. But, 
for all that, having failed the first time, the other 
might be moved to take what might possibly be con¬ 
sidered more certain measures on the next attempt. 
And in that case— No; the cabin was empty! The 
light from the passageway, filtering in through the 
open door, showed that quite plainly. 

Captain Francis Newcombe stepped inside, and, be¬ 
fore closing the door, looked curiously over the wood¬ 
work near the door and on a line with the window. 
Yes, there it was! The writing on the wall! The 
bullet had splintered a piece of the wall panelling, 

and had embedded itself in the wall a little to the right 
of the door casing. 

He closed and locked the door now, shutting out the 
light, and, with his revolver in his hand, sat down in 
the darkness, out of direct range himself, but where he 
could command the window. It was a bit futile. He 
was conscious of that. But there was always the pos¬ 
sibility of the man’s return, and there was no other pos- 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 99 

< 

sibility that promised any better—or, indeed, promised 
anything at all. 

His mind began to weigh, and sift, and grope as 
through a maze, battling with the problem again. Not 
Locke! He was rather definitely prepared to set 
Locke apart from everybody else on board the ship, 
and say that it was not Locke. Who, then? Who 
had any— 

He straightened up, suddenly even more alert. 
There was some one out in the passageway now—some 
one outside his door. There came a low, quick rap. 

“Who’s there?” demanded Captain Francis New- 
combe sharply. 

Locke’s voice answered: 

“It’s Locke. May I come in?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe crossed to the door, un¬ 
locked it, and flung it open. 

“Hello!” ejaculated the young American, as the 
light from the passageway fell upon the other. “Not 
in bed, and in the dark! What’s the idea? Why no 
light?” 

“Because I fancy it’s safer—in the dark,” said Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe. “Come in.” 

“Safer!” Howard Locke stepped into the cabin, 
and closed the door behind him. “How safer? Say, 
look here! Some one’s been turning my stateroom in¬ 
side out—been going through my things.” 

“You’re lucky!” said Captain Francis Newcombe 
tersely. 

“Lucky!” echoed the young American quickly. 
“What do you mean?” 

“That it wasn’t anything worse,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe coolly. “Some one’s been trying 


IOO 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


I 


to put a bullet through me—only it went into the wall 
over there instead. Here, take a look!” He switched 
on the light. “See it—there by the door casing!” 

“Good God!” exclaimed Locke. “Yes; I see it! 
When was this?” 

“Shortly after I left you. As I opened the door here 
and stepped into the cabin, I was fired at through the 
window. And the window had been opened from the 
outside—there are marks on it—and whoever it was, 
was waiting for me.” 

“That’s damned queer,” said Howard Locke. 
“When I left you I went to my rooms, and everything 
was all right. I went back to the smoking room be¬ 
cause I had left my cigarette case there. I stayed a 
few minutes watching several hands of bridge, and 
when I went back to my rooms again I found my 
steamer trunk open and a case of papers on the floor.” 

“Anything missing?” asked Captain Francis New- 
combe. 

“No; not so far as I know,” Locke answered. 
“What do you think had better be done?” 

“I think you had better switch that light off, and 
stand away from the line of the window.” 

The young American shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “It’s hardly likely that the same 
game would be tried twice in the same night. Say, 
what do you make of it? It seems mighty queer that 
you and I should have been picked out for some swine’s 
attentions! What should be done?” 

“What have you done?” 

“Nothing, so far,” Locke replied. “I came here at 
once to tell you about it, and ask your advice. I sup¬ 
pose the commander ought to be told.” 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL ioi 

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the edge 
of his bunk. 

“I can’t see the good of it,” he said slowly. “We’re 
landing to-morrow. It would mean the shore police 
aboard, and no end of a fuss; and an almost certain 
delay, nobody allowed off the ship, and all that, you 
know. I can’t see how it would get us anywhere. 
You haven’t lost anything; and I—well, I’m still alive.” 

“That’s true,” said Locke. He was staring at the 
bullet hole in the wall. “And worst of all there’d be 
the reporters. Three-inch headlines! I’m not for 
that! I agree with you. We’ll say nothing.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe inspected Locke’s back. 

“How much of a crew do you carry on this fifty- 
footer of yours?” he inquired softly. 

“Why not necessarily any one but the two of us 
and your man, if you’ll come along.” Howard Locke 
turned around suddenly to face the other. “Why?” 

“Well,” said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly, 
“under those conditions, as the two victims of to-night, 
we’d form a sort of mutual protective society—and 
perhaps, if the offer is still open, it would be the safest 
way for me to reach my destination. There wouldn’t 
be any windows for any one to fire through.” 

Howard Locke lighted a cigarette. 

“That’s a go!” he said. “I’m very keen to make 
the trip with you. And if all this has decided it, I’m 
glad it’s happened. That’s fine! And now—what 
are you going to do for the rest of the night?” 

“Why, I’m going to bed,” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe casually; “and at the risk of appearing in¬ 
hospitable, I should advise you to do likewise.” 

“Right!” agreed Locke. “There’s nothing else to 


102 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

do.” He stepped toward the door, but paused, staring 
at the bullet mark in the wall again. 

“That bullet hole seems to fascinate you,” smiled 
Captain Francis Newcombe. 

“Yes,” said Locke, as he opened the door. “I was 
thinking what a rotten thing it was to be fired at cold¬ 
bloodedly in the dark. Good-night!” 

The door closed. 

Captain Francis Newcombe did not go to bed. With 
the light out again, he sat there on the bunk. 

Long minutes passed; they drifted into hours. 

The man’s figure became crouched, became a shape 
that lost human semblance, that was like unto some 
creature huddled in its lair; and the face was no longer 
human, for upon it was stamped the passions of hell; 
and the head became cocked curiously sideways in a 
strained attitude of attention, as though listening, lis¬ 
tening, listening, always listening. 

And there came a time when he spoke aloud, and 
cajled out hoarsely: 

“Who’s that? Who’s whispering there? Who’s 
calling Shadow Varne . . . Shadow Varne . . . 
Shadow Varne. . . .” 

And in answer the ship’s bell struck the hour of 
dawn. 


BOOK II: The Isle of Prey 


« 


BOOK II: THE ISLE OF PREY 


—I— 

THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS 

I T was a night of white moonlight; a languorous 
night. It was a night of impenetrable shadows, 
deep and black; and, where light and shadow 
met and merged, the treetops were fringed against 
the sky in tracery as delicate as a cameo. And there 
was fragrance in the air, exotic, exquisite, the fra¬ 
grance of growing things, of semi-tropical flowers and 
trees and shrubs. And very faint and soft there fell 
upon the ear the gentle lapping of the water on the 
shore, as though in her mother tenderness nature were 
breathing a lullaby over her sea-cradled isle. 

On a verandah of great length and spacious width, 
moon-streaked where the light stole in through the 
row of ornamental columns that supported the roof 
and through the interstices of vine-covered lattice 
work, checkering the flooring in fanciful designs, a girl 
raised herself suddenly on her elbow from a reclining 
chair, and, reaching out her hand, laid it impulsively 
on that of another girl who sat in a chair beside her. 

“Oh, Dora,” she breathed, “it’s just like fairy¬ 
land!” 

Dora Marlin smiled quietly. 

“What a queer little creature you are, Polly!” she 
said. “You like it here, don’t you?” 

“I love it!” said Polly Wickes. 

105 


106 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“Fairyland!” Dora Marlin repeated the word. 
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there were a real fairy¬ 
land just like the stories they used to read to us as 
children?” 

Polly Wickes nodded her head slowly. 

“I suppose so,” she said; “but I never had any 
fairy stories read to me when I was a child, and so 
my fairyland has always been one of my own—one 
of dreams. And this is fairyland because it’s so beau¬ 
tiful, and because being here doesn’t seem as though 
one were living in the same world one was born in 
at all.” 

“You poor child!” said Dora Marlin softly. “A 
land of dreams, then! Yes; I know. These nights 
are like that sometimes, aren’t they? They make you 
dream any dream you want to have come true, and, 
while you dream wide awake, you almost actually 
experience its fulfilment then and there. And so it 
is nearly as good as a real fairyland, isn’t it? And 
anyway, Polly, you look like a really, truly fairy your¬ 
self to-night.” 

“No,” said Polly Wickes. “You are the fairy. 
Fairies aren’t supposed to be dark; they have golden 
hair, and blue eyes, and—” 

“A wand,” interrupted Dora Marlin, with a mis¬ 
chievous little laugh. “And if it weren’t all just make- 
believe, and I was the fairy, I’d wave my wand and 
have him appear instantly on the scene; but, as it is, 
I’m afraid he won’t come to-night after all, and it’s 
getting late, and I think we’d better go to bed.” 

“And I’m sure he will come, and anyway I couldn’t 
go to bed,” said Polly Wickes earnestly. “And any¬ 
way I couldn’t go to sleep. Just think, Dora, I haven’t 


THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS 107 

seen him for nearly four years, and I’ll have all the 
news, and hear everything I want to know about 
mother. He said they’d leave the mainland to-day, 
and it’s only five hours across. I’m sure he’ll still 
come. And, besides, I’m certain I heard a motor boat 
a few minutes ago.” 

“Very likely,” agreed Dora Marlin; “but that was 
probably one of our own men out somewhere around 
the island. It’s very late now, and in half an hour 
it will be low tide, and they would hardly start at 
all if they knew they wouldn’t make Manwa by day¬ 
light. There are the reefs, and—” 

“The reefs are charted,” said Polly Wickes de¬ 
cisively. “I know he’ll come.” 

A little ripple of laughter came from Dora Marlin’s 
chair. 

“How old is Captain Newcombe, dear?” she in¬ 
quired naively. 

“Don’t be a beast, Dora,” said Polly Wickes 
severely. “He’s very, very old—at least he was when 
I saw him last.” 

“When you weren’t much more than fourteen,” ob¬ 
served Dora Marlin judicially. “And when you’re 
fourteen anybody over thirty is a regular Methuselah. 
I know I used to think when I was a child that father 
was terribly, terribly old, much older than he seems 
to-day when he really is an old man; and I used to 
wonder then how he lived so long.” 

Polly Wickes’ dark eyes grew serious. 

“It doesn’t apply to me,” she said in a low tone. 
“I wasn’t ever a child. I was old when I was ten. 
I’ve told you all about myself, because I couldn’t have 
come here with you if I hadn’t; and you know why 


io» THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

I am so eager and excited and so happy that guardy 
is coming. I owe him everything in the world I’ve 
got; and he’s been so good to mother. I—I don’t 
know why. He said when I was older I would under¬ 
stand. And he’s such a wonderful man himself, with 
such a splendid war record.” 

Dora Marlin rose from her chair, and placed her 
arm affectionately around her companion’s shoulders. 

“Yes, dear,” she said gently. “I know. I was only 
teasing. And you wouldn’t be Polly Wickes if you 
wanted to do anything else than just sit here and wait 
until you were quite, quite sure that he wouldn’t come 
to-night. But as I’m already sure he won’t because 
it’s so late, I’m going to bed. You don’t mind, do 
you, dear? I want to see if father’s all right, too. 
Poor old dad!” 

“Dora!” Polly Wickes was on her feet. “Oh, 
Dora, I’m so selfish! I—I wish I could help. But 
I’m sure it’s going to be all right. I don’t think that 
specialist was right at all. How could he be? Mr. 
Marlin is such a dear!” 

Dora Marlin turned her head away, and for a 
moment she did not speak. When she looked around 
again there was a bright, quick smile on her lips. 

“I am counting a lot on Captain Newcombe’s and 
Mr. Locke’s visit,” she said. “I’m sure it will do 
father good. Good-night, dear—and if they do come, 
telephone up to my room and I’ll be down in a jiffy. 
Their rooms are all ready for them, but they’re sure 
to be famished, and—” 

“I’ll do nothing of the sort!” announced Polly 
Wickes. “The idea of upsetting a household in the 


THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS 109 

middle of the night! I’ll send them back to their 
yacht.” 

“You won’t do anything of the kind!” said Dora 
Marlin. 

“Yes, I will,” said Polly Wickes. 

“Well, he won’t come anyway,” said Dora Marlin. 

“Yes, he will!” 

“No, he won’t!” 

They both began to laugh. 

“But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Polly Wickes. 
“After he’s gone I’ll creep into bed with you and tell 
you all about it. Good-night, dear.” 

“Good-night, Polly fairy,” said Dora Marlin. 

Polly Wickes watched the white form weave itself 
in and out of the checkered spots of moonlight along 
the verandah, and finally disappear inside the house; 
then she threw herself down upon the reclining chair 
again, her hands clasped behind her head, and lay 
there, strangely alert, wide-eyed, staring out on the 
lawn. 

She was quite sure he would come—even yet—be¬ 
cause when they had sent over to the mainland for 
the mail yesterday there had been a letter from him 
saying he would arrive some time to-day. 

How soft the night was! 

Would he be changed; would he seem very differ¬ 
ent? Had what Dora had said about the viewpoint 
from which age measures age been really true? And 
if it were? She was the one who would seem changed 
—from a little girl in pigtails to a woman, not a very 
old woman, but a woman. Would he know her, rec¬ 
ognise her again? 


no 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

What a wonderful, glorious, dreamy night it was! 

Dreams! Was she dreaming even now, dreaming 
wide awake, that she was here; a dream that sup¬ 
planted the squalour of narrow, ill-lighted streets, of 
dark, creaking staircases, of lurking, hungry shapes, 
of stalking vice, of homes that were single, airless 
rooms gaunt with poverty—a dream that supplanted 
all that for this, where there was only a world of 
beautiful things, and where even the airs that whis¬ 
pered through the trees were balmy with some rare 
perfume that intoxicated the senses with untold joy? 

She startled herself with a sharp little cry. Pic¬ 
tures, memories, vivid, swift in succession, were flash¬ 
ing, unbidden, through her mind—a girl in ragged 
clothes who sold flowers on the street corners, in the 
parks, a gutter-snipe the London “bobbies” had called 
her so often that the term had lost any personal mean¬ 
ing save that it classified the particular species of out¬ 
casts to which she had belonged; a room that was 
reached through the climbing of a smutty, dirty stair¬ 
case in a tenement that moaned in its bitter fight 
against dissolution in common with its human occu¬ 
pants, a room that was scanty in its furnishings, where 
a single cot bed did service for two, and a stagnant 
odour of salt fish was never absent; a woman that was 
grey-haired, sharp-faced, of language and actions at 
times that challenged even the license of Whitechapel, 
but one who loved, too; the smells from the doors of 
pastry shops on the better streets that had made her cry 
because they had made her more hungry than ever; the 
leer of men when she had grown a few years older 
who thought a gutter-snipe both defenceless and fair 
game. 


THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS hi 

She had never been a child. 

Polly Wickes had turned in the reclining chair, and 
her face now was buried in the cushion. 

And then into her life had come—had come—this 
“guardy.” He did not leer at her; he was kind and 
courtly—like—like what she had thought a good 
father might have been. But she had not understood 
the cataclysmic, bewildering and stupendous change 
that had then taken place in her life, and so she had 
asked her mother. She had always remembered the 
answer; she always would. 

“Never you mind, dearie,” Mrs. Wickes had said. 
“Wot’s wot is wot. ’E’s a gentleman is Captain New- 
combe, a kind, rich gentleman, top ’ole ’e is. An’ if 
’e’s a-goin’ to adopt yer, I ain’t goin’ to ’ave to worry 
any more abaht wot’s goin’ into my mouth; an’ 
though I ain’t got religion, I says, as I says to ’im 
when ’e asks me, thank Gawd, I says. An’ if we’re 
a-goin’ to be separated for a few years, dearie, wye 
it’s a sacrifice as both of us ’as got to myke for each 
other.” 

They had been separated for nearly four years. As 
fourteen understood it, she had understood that she 
was to be taught to live in a different world, to ac¬ 
quire the viewpoints of a different station in life, in 
order that she might fit herself to take her place in 
that world and that station where her guardian lived 
and moved. To-day she understood this in a much 
more mature way. And she had tried to do her best 
—but she could never forget the old life no matter 
how completely severed she might be from it, or how 
far from it she might be removed even in a physical 
sense; though gradually, she was conscious, the past 


I 12 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


had become less real, less poignant, and more like 
some dream that came at times, and lingered haunt- 
ingly in her memory. 

The hardest part of it all had been the separation 
from her mother, but she would see her mother soon 
now, for Captain Newcombe had promised that she 
should go back to England when her education was 
finished in America. And her education was finished 
now—the last term was behind her. Four years—her 
mother! Even if that separation had seemed neces¬ 
sary and essential to her guardian, how wonderful 
and dear he had been even in that respect. How 
happy he had made them both! Indeed, her greatest 
happiness came from the knowledge that her mother, 
since those four years began, had removed from the 
squalour and distress that she had previously known 
all her life, and had lived since then in comfort and 
ease. Her mother could not read or write, of course, 
but— 

Polly Wickes caught her breath in a little, quick, 
half sob. Could not read or write! It seemed to 
mean so much, to visualise so sharply that other world, 
to—to bring the odour of salt fish, the nauseous smell 
of guttering tallow candles. No, no; that was all long 
gone now, gone forever, for both her mother and her¬ 
self. What did it matter if her mother could not 
read or write? It had not mattered. Even here 
guardy had filled the breach—written the letters that 
her mother had dictated, and read to her mother the 
letters that she, Polly, sent in her guardian’s care. 
And her mother had told her how happy she was, 
and how comfortable in a cosy little home on a pretty 
little street in the suburbs. 


THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS 113 

Was it any wonder that she was beside herself with 
glad excitement to-night, when at any moment now 
the one person in all the world who had been so good 
to her, to whom she owed a debt of gratitude that 
she could never even be able to express, much less 
repay, would—would actually, really be here? For 
he would come! She was sure of it. After all, it 
wasn’t so very late, and— 

She rose suddenly from the reclining chair, her 
heart pounding in quickened, excited throbs, and ran 
lightly to the edge of the verandah. He was here 
now. She had heard a footstep. She could not have 
been mistaken. It was as though some one had 
stepped on loose gravel. She peered over the balus¬ 
trade, and her forehead puckered in a perplexed 
frown. There wasn’t any one in sight; and there 
wasn’t any gravel on which a footstep could have 
crunched. All around the house in this direction there 
was only the soft velvet sward of the beautifully kept 
lawn. The driveway was at the other side of the 
house. She had forgotten that. And yet it did not 
seem possible she could have been mistaken. Imagina¬ 
tion, fancy, could hardly have reproduced so perfect 
an imitation of such a sound. 

It was very strange! It was very strange that she 
should have— No; she hadn’t been mistaken! She 
had heard a footstep—but it had come from under 
the verandah, and some one was there now. She 
leaned farther out over the balustrade, and stared with 
widened eyes at a movement in the hedge of tall, 
flowering bush that grew below her along the 
verandah’s length. A low rustle came now to her 
ears. Sheltered by the hedge, some one was creep- 


114 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

ing cautiously, stealthily along there under the veran¬ 
dah. 

Her hands tightened on the balustrade. What did 
it mean? No good, that was certain. She was afraid. 
And suddenly the peace and quietness and serenity of 
the night was gone. She was afraid. And it had 
always seemed so safe here on this wonderful little 
island, so free from intrusion. There was something 
snakelike in the way those bushes moved. 

She watched them now, fascinated. Something 
bade her run into the house and cry out an alarm; 
something held her there clinging to the balustrade, 
her eyes fixed on that spot below her just a few yards 
along from where she stood. She could make out a 
figure now, the figure of a man crawling warily out 
through the hedge toward the lawn. And then in¬ 
stinctively she caught her hand to her lips to smother 
an involuntary cry, and drew quickly back from the 
edge of the balustrade. The figure was in plain sight 
now on the lawn in the moonlight—a figure in a long 
dressing gown; a figure without hat, whose silver hair 
caught the sheen of the soft light and seemed some¬ 
how to give the suggestion of ghostlike whiteness to 
the thin, strained face beneath. 

It was Mr. Marlin. 

For a moment Polly watched the other as he made 
his way across the lawn in a diagonal direction toward 
the grove of trees that surrounded the house. Fear 
was gone now, supplanted by a wave of pity. Poor 
Mr. Marlin! The specialist had been right. Of 
course, he had been right! She had never doubted 
it—nor had Dora. What she had said to Dora had 
been said out of sympathy and love. They both under- 


THE SPELL OF THE MOONBEAMS 115 

stood that. It—it helped a little to keep up Dora’s 
courage; it kept hope alive. Mr. Marlin was so 
kindly, so lovable and good. But he was an incurable 
monomaniac. And now he was out here on the lawn 
in the middle of the night in his dressing gown. What 
was it that he was after? Why had he stolen out 
from the house in such an extraordinarily surrepti¬ 
tious way? 

She turned and ran softly along the verandah, and 
down the steps to the lawn, and stood still again, 
watching. There was no need of getting Dora out of 
bed because in any case Mr. Marlin could certainly 
come to no harm; and, besides, she, Polly, could tell 
Dora all about it in the morning. But, that apart, 
she was not quite certain what she ought to do. The 
strange, draped figure of the old man had disappeared 
amongst the trees now, apparently having taken the 
path that led to the shore. Mechanically she started 
forward, half running—then slowed her pace almost 
immediately to a hesitating walk. Had she at all any 
right to spy on Mr. Marlin? It was not as though 
any harm could come to him, or that he— 

And then with a low, quick cry, her eyes wide, 
Polly Wickes stood motionless in the centre of the 
lawn. 


—II— 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 

C APTAIN FRANCIS NEWCOMBE, from the 
dock where he had been making fast a line, sur¬ 
veyed for a moment the deck of the Talofa 
below. His eyes rested speculatively on Howard 
Locke, who, with sleeves rolled up and grimy to the 
elbows, was busy over the yacht’s engine; then his 
glance passed to Runnells on the forward deck of the 
little vessel, who was assiduously engaged in making 
shipshape coils of a number of truant ropes. Captain 
Francis Newcombe permitted a flicker to cross his lips. 
It was a new experience for Runnells, this playing at 
sailorman—and Runnells had earned ungrudging 
praise from Locke all the way down from New York. 
Runnells had taken to the job even as a child takes 
to a new toy. Well, so much the better! Runnells 
and Locke had hit it off together from the start. 
Again, so much the better! 

He lit a cigarette and stared shoreward along the 
dock. Manwa Island! Well, in the moonlight at 
least it was a place of astounding beauty, and if its 
appearance was any criterion of its material worth, 
it was a— He laughed softly, and languidly exhaled 
a cloud of cigarette smoke. There was a lure about 
the place—or was it the moonlight that, stealing with 
dreamy treachery upon the senses, carried one away 
to a land of make-believe? That stretch of sand 

there like a girdle between sea and shore, as fleecy 

116 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 117 

as driven snow; the restless shimmer of the moon¬ 
beams on the water like the play of clustered diamonds 
in a platinum setting; the trees and open spaces etched 
against myriad stars; the smell of semi-tropical grow¬ 
ing things, just pure fragrance that made the nostrils 
greedy with insatiable desire. 

He drew his hand suddenly across his eyes. 

“What a night!” he exclaimed aloud. “It’s like 
the eyes and the lips of a dream woman; like a goblet 
of wine of the vintage of the gods! No song of the 
sirens could compare with this! I’m going ashore, 
Locke. What do you say?” 

Locke looked up with a grunt, as he swabbed his 
arms with a piece of waste. 

“I’m done in with this damned engine!” he said 
irritably. “It’s too late to go ashore. They’ll all 
be asleep.” 

“I’m not going to ring the doorbell,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe pleasantly. “I’m simply going to 
stroll in paradise. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“Go to it!” said Locke. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Right!” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

He turned and walked shoreward along the dock. 
Over his shoulder he saw Runnells pause in the act 
of coiling rope to stare after him—and again an 
ironical little flicker crossed his lips. Runnells was 
no doubt prompted to call out and ask what this 
midnight excursion was all about, but Runnells in the 
eyes of Howard Locke was a valet, and Runnells 
must therefore be dumb. Runnells on occasions knew 
his place! 

He nodded in a sort of self-commendatory fashion 
to himself, as, reaching the shore, he started forward 


118 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

along a roadway that opened through the trees. He 
was well satisfied with his decision to bring Runnells 
along on the trip. “Captain Francis Newcombe and 
man” looked well, sounded well, and was well—since 
Runnells, for once in his life, even though it was due 
to no moral regeneration on the part of Runnells, but 
due entirely to Runnells’ belief that he was on an in¬ 
nocent holiday, could be made exceedingly useful in 
bolstering up his master’s social standing without bag¬ 
ging any of the game! 

“Blessed is he who expects little,” murmured Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe softly to himself, “for he shall 
receive—still less!” 

He paused abruptly, and stared ahead of him. 
Curious road, this! Like a great archway of trees! 
And all moon-flecked underfoot! Where did it lead? 
To the house probably! This was Manwa Island— 
the home of the mad millionaire! Queer freak of 
nature, these Florida Keys—if what he had been able 
to read up about them was true. Almost a continu¬ 
ous bow of islands, some fruitful, some barren, some 
big, some small—such a heterogeneous mess!—stretch¬ 
ing along off the coast, some near, some far, for two 
hundred miles. Nothing but rocks on one; tropical 
fruits and verdure in profusion on another! Well, the 
mad millionaire, if the night revealed anything, had 
picked the gem of them all! 

He walked on again. The road wound tortuously 
through what appeared to be a glade of great extent. 
It seemed to beckon, to lure, to intrigue him the farther 
he went, to promise something around each moon- 
flecked turning. He laughed aloud softly. Promised 
what? Where was he going? Why was he here 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 119 

ashore at all? Was it possible that he had no ulterior 
motive in this stroll, that for once the sheer beauty 
of anything held him in thrall? Well, even so, it 
at least afforded him a laugh at himself then. This 
road, for instance, was like an enchanted pathway, 
and there was magic in the night. 

Or was it Polly? 

Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head. 
Hardly! Not at this hour! Thanks to the engine 
trouble that had delayed them, she would long since 
have given up expecting him to-night, even though 
he had written her that he would be here. 

The house, then? A surreptitious inspection; an 
entry even?—there were half a million dollars there! 

Again he shook his head. He was not so great a 
fool as to invite disaster. To-morrow, and for days 
thereafter, he would be an inmate of the house when 
he would have opportunities of that nature without 
number, and without entailing any risk or suspicion— 
and time was no object. 

He smiled complacently to himself. Things were 
shaping up very well—very well indeed. The seed 
so carefully planted years ago was to bear fruit at 
last. The greatest coup of his life was just within 
his grasp; and, if he were not utterly astray, that 
very coup in itself should prove but the stepping stone 
to still greater ones. Polly! Yes, quite true! The 
future depended very materially upon Polly. How 
amenable would she be to influence?—granting always 
that the said influence be delicately and tactfully 
enough applied! 

He fell to whistling very softly under his breath. 
He had plans for Polly. And if they matured the 


120 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


future looked very bright—for himself. He won¬ 
dered what she was like—particularly as to character 
and disposition. Was she affectionate, romantic— 
what? A great deal, a very great deal, depended on 
that. Not in the present instance—Polly had fully 
served her purpose in so far as a certain half million 
dollars in cash was concerned, and being innocent of 
any connivance must remain so—but thereafter. Eng¬ 
land was an exploited field; it had become dangerous; 
the net there was drawing in. Oh, yes, he had had 
all that in mind on the day he had first sent Polly 
to America, but only in a general way then, while 
to-day it had become concrete. Locke would make a 
most admirable “open sesame” to the New Land—if 
Locke married Polly. Polly, as Mrs. Locke, would 
step at once into a social sphere than which there was 
no higher —or wealthier —and, ipso facto, Captain 
Francis Newcombe would do likewise. And given a 
half million as stake money, Captain Francis New¬ 
combe, if he knew Captain Francis Newcombe at all, 
would not fail in his opportunities! He had expected 
Polly in due course to make a place for herself in 
social America; that was what he had paid money for 
—but Howard Locke was a piece of luck. Locke con¬ 
served time; Locke opened the safety vault of possi¬ 
bilities immediately. 

He frowned suddenly. Suppose Polly did not prove 
amenable? Nonsense! Why shouldn’t she—if the 
man weren’t flung at her head! Locke was the kind 
of chap a girl ought to like, and all girls were more 
or less romantic, and the element of romance had just 
the right spice to it here—the guardian she has not 
seen in years who is accompanied by a young man, 


I2IJ 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 

who, from any standpoint, whether of looks, physique, 
manner or position, would measure up to the most 
exacting of young ladies’ ideals! And to say nothing 
of the magic spells that seemed to have their very 
home in this garden isle—a veritable wooer’s bower! 
There would be other moonlight nights. Bah! There 
was nothing to it—save to put a few minor obstacles 
in the way of the turtle doves! 

Where the devil did this road lead to? Well, no 
matter! It was like a tunnel, dreamy black with its 
walls of leaves, dreamy with its sweet-smelling odours. 
In itself it was well worth while. It continued to in¬ 
vite him. And he accepted the invitation. His 
thoughts roved farther afield now. Locke . . . the 
trip down on the fifty-foot Talofa . . . not an inci¬ 
dent to mar the days—nothing since the night that 
shot had been fired on shipboard through his cabin 
window. 

His face for a moment grew dark—then cleared 
again. If, as through the hours thereafter when he 
had sat there in the cabin, it had seemed as though 
the shot had come from some ghostly visitor out of 
the past, there was no reason now why it should bother 
him further; for, granting such a diagnosis as true, 
Locke and the Talofa had thrown even so acute a 
stalker as a supernatural spirit off the trail. As a 
matter of fact, it had probably been some maniacal 
or drug-crazed idiot running for the moment amuck. 
To-night, with these soft, whispering airs around him, 
and serenity and loveliness everywhere in contrast with 
that night of storm, the incident did not seem so viru¬ 
lent a thing anyway; it seemed to be smoothed over, 
to be relegated definitely to where it belonged—to 


122 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

the realm of things ended and done with. Certainly, 
since that night nothing had happened. 

And yet, now, his lips tightened. 

It was unfortunate he had not caught the man. 
He would have liked to have seen the other’s face; 
to have exchanged memory with memory—and to 
have slammed forever shut that particular door of 
the bygone days if by any chance he found he had 
been careless enough to have left one, in passing, ajar. 

He swore sharply under his breath; but the next 
moment shrugged his shoulders. The incident was 
too immeasurably far removed from Manwa Island 
to allow it to intrude itself upon him now. Why 
think of things such as that when the very night itself 

here with its languor, its beauty, and—yes, again_ 

its magic, sought to bring to the senses the gift of 

delightful repose and contentment? When the_ 

He stood suddenly still, and in sheer amazement 
rubbed his eyes. He had come to the end of the tree- 
arched road, and it seemed as though he gazed now 
on the imaginative painting of a master genius, dar¬ 
ing, bold in its conception, exquisite in its execution. 
Either that, or there was magic in the night, and he 
had been transported bodily through enchantment into 
the very land of the Arabian Nights! 

A few yards away, he faced what looked in the 
moonlight like a great marble balustrade, and rising 
above this, painted into a hue of softest white against 
the night, towered what might well have been a caliph’s 
palace. It stretched away in lines unusual in their 
beauty and design; columns above the balustrade; little 
domes like minarets against the sky line; quaint lat¬ 
ticed windows. And the effect of the whole was that 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 123 

of a mirage on a sea of emerald green; for, sweeping 
away from the balustrade, wondrous in its colour 
under the moonlight, was a wide expanse of lawn, 
level, unbroken until the eye met again the horizon 
rim beyond in the wall of encircling trees, a wall of 
inky blackness. 

He moved forward out on to the lawn—and as 
suddenly halted again, as there seemed to float into 
his line of vision from around the corner of the balus¬ 
trade, like some nymph of the moonlight, the slim, 
graceful figure of a girl in white, clinging draperies, 
whose clustering masses of dark hair crowned a face 
that in the soft light was amazingly beautiful. And 
he caught his breath as he gazed. And the girl, with 
a low cry, stood still—and then came running toward 
him. 

“Oh, guardy! Guardy! Guardy!” she cried. “I 
knew you’d come! I knew it!” 

It was Polly’s voice. It hadn’t changed. Was the 
nymph Polly? She was running with both hands 
outstretched. He caught them in his own as she came 
up to him, and stared into her face almost unbeliev¬ 
ingly. Polly! This wasn’t Polly! Polly’s photo¬ 
graphs were of a very pretty girl—this girl was glori¬ 
ous! She stirred the pulses. Damn it, she made the 
blood leap! 

She hung back now a little shyly, the colour coming 
and going in her face. 

He laughed. He meant it to be a laugh of one 
entirely in command both of himself and the situation; 
' but it sounded in his ears as a laugh forced, unnatural, 
a poor effort to cover a suddenly routed composure. 

“And is this all the welcome I get?” he demanded. 


124 the four stragglers 

He drew her closer to him. Gad, why not take his 
rights? She was worth it! 

She held up her cheek demurely. 

“I—I wasn’t quite sure,” she said coyly. “One’s 
deportment with one’s guardian wasn’t in the school 
curriculum, you know—guardy!” 

“Then I should have been more particular in my 
selection of the school,” he said. It was strange, un¬ 
accountable! His voice seemed to rasp. He kissed 
her—then held her off at arm’s-length. Polly! This 
bewitching creature was Polly! How the colour came 
and fled; and something glistened in the great, dark 
eyes—like the dew glistening in the morning sunlight. 

“Oh, guardy!” she murmured. “It’s so good to see 
you!” 

“You waited up for me, Polly?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered. “Dora was sure you wouldn’t 
come to-night because it was so late, and on account 
of it being low tide; but I was equally sure you would.” 

Of course, I would!” said Captain Francis New- 
combe glibly. “And I’m here. We’re just in. I was 
afraid it was hopelessly late; but I didn’t want to dis¬ 
appoint you in case you might still be clinging to what 
must have seemed a forlorn hope, and so I came ashore 
on the chance.” 

“Guardy,” she said delightedly, “you’re the only 
guardy in the world! But what happened? You were 
to have left the mainland to-day, and it’s only five 
hours across.” 

“You’ll have to ask Locke,” he smiled. “That is, 
as to details—when he’s in a better humour. In a 
general way, however, the engine broke down. We’ve 
been since one o’clock this afternoon getting over.” 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 


12 5 


“Oh!” she exclaimed. “What perfectly wretched 
luck! And where’s Mr. Locke now? And—no— 
first, you must tell me about mother. Is she changed 
any? Is she well, and quite, quite happy? And does 
she like her home? Is it pretty? And how—” 

“Good heavens, Polly!” expostulated Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe with assumed helplessness. “What a 
volley!” But his mind was at work swiftly, coldly, 
judicially. To preface his visit with the announcement 
of Mrs. Wickes’ untimely—or was it timely?—end, 
would create an atmosphere that would not at all 
harmonise with his plans. Polly in mourning and re¬ 
tirement! Locke! Impossible! Nor did it suit him 
to explain that Mrs. Wickes was not her mother. He 
was not yet sure when that particular piece of informa¬ 
tion might best be used to advantage. And so Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe laughed disengagingly. “I 
can’t possibly answer all those questions to-night— 
we’d be here until daylight. The mother’s quite all 
right, Polly—quite all right. You can pump me dry 
to-morrow.” 

“Oh, I’m so glad—and so happy!” she cried. She 
clapped her hands together. “All right, to-morrow! 
We’ll talk all day long. Well, then, about Mr. Locke 
—where is he ? And how did you come to make such 
a trip? You know, you just wrote that you were com¬ 
ing down from New York on his yacht. Who is he? 
Tell me about him.” 

Locke! Damn it, the girl was incredibly beautiful 
—the figure of a young goddess! What hair! Those 
lips! Fool! What was the matter with him? Polly 
was only a tool to be used; not to turn his head just 
because she -had proved to be a bit of a feminine won- 


126 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

der. Fool! The downfall of every outstanding figure 
in his profession had been traceable to a woman. It 
was a police axiom. It did not apply to Shadow 
Varne! A girl—bah—the world was full of them! 
And yet— His hand at his side clenched, while his 
lips smiled. 

“That’s something else for to-morrow,” he said. 
“You’ll meet him then, and”—what was it he had 
said to himself a little while ago about slight obstacles 
in the way of the turtle doves?—“I hope you’ll like 
him, though I’ve an idea that perhaps you won’t.” 

“Why won’t I?” demanded Polly instantly. 

“Well, I don’t know—upon my word, I don’t,” said 
Captain Francis Newcombe with a quizzical grin. 
“He certainly isn’t strikingly handsome; and I’ve an 
idea he’s anything but a ladies’ man—though not alto¬ 
gether a bad sort in spite of that, you know.” 

“Oh!” said Polly Wickes, with a little pout that 
might have meant anything. “Well, who is he, then 
—and where did you meet him?” 

“I met him at the club in London, and we chummed 
up on the way over. It’s quite simple. He was off 
for a holiday with no choice as to where he went, 
whereas I wanted to come here—so we came down in 
his motor cruiser. As to who he is, he’s just young 
Howard Locke, the son of Howard Locke, senior, the 
American financier.” 

“Oh!” said Polly Wickes again. 

What a ravishing little pout! Where had the girl 
learned the trick? Was it a trick? Those eyes were 
wonderfully frank, steady, ingenuous—wonderfully 
deep and self-reliant. He wondered if he looked old 
in those eyes? Young Locke! Fool again! Go on, 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 127 

tempt the gods! Ask her if thirty-three fell within 
her own category of youth, or— 

“Don’t make a sound!” she cautioned suddenly. 
“Quick! Here!” 

He found himself, obedient to the pressure on his 
arm, standing back again within the shadows of the 
tree-arched road. 

“What is it, Polly?” he asked in surprise. 

“Look!” she whispered, and pointed out across the 
lawn. 

A figure was emerging from the trees some hundred 
yards away, and, in the open now, began to approach 
the house. Captain Francis Ncwcombe stared. It 
was a bare-headed, white-haired old man in a dressing 
gown that reached almost to his heels. The man 
walked quickly, but with a queer, bird-like movement 
of his head which he cocked from side to side at almost 
every step, darting furtive glances in all directions 
around him. 

Captain Francis Newcombe felt the girl’s hand 
tighten in a tense grip on his arm. Rather curious, 
this! The figure was making for that hedge of bushes 
that seemed to enclose the verandah from below. 
And now, reaching the hedge, and pausing for an in¬ 
stant to look around him again in every direction, the 
man parted the bushes and disappeared under the 
verandah. 

“My word!” observed Captain Francis Newcombe 
tersely. “What’s it about? A thief in the night—or 
what? I’ll see what the beggar’s up to anyway!” 

He took a step forward, but Polly held him back. 

“Keep quiet!” she breathed. “It’s—it’s only Mr. 
Marlin.” 


128 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Captain Francis Newcombe whistled low under his 
breath. 

“As bad as that, is he?” 

Polly nodded her head. 

“Yes,” she said a little miserably. “Pm afraid so; 
though it’s the first time I ever saw anything like 
this.” 

“But what is he doing under the verandah there 
at this hour ? ’ demanded Captain Francis Newcombe. 

Polly shook her head this time. 

I don’t know,” she said; “but I think there must 
be some way in and out of the house under there, 
for I am certain he was in bed less than an hour ago, 
because when Dora left me she was going to see that 
her father was all right for the night, and if she 
hadn t found him in his room, I am sure she would 
have been alarmed and would have come back to me. 

I—I saw him come out of there a little while ago. I 
was sitting on the verandah waiting for you. I started 
to follow him across the lawn, and then I thought I 
had no right to do so, and then I saw you, and—and 
I forgot all about him.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe was a master of facial 
expression. He became instantly grave and concerned. 

“Well, I should say then,” he stated thoughtfully, 
that, from what I’ve just seen, and from what you 
wrote in your letter about the fabulous sum of money 
he keeps about him, he ought to have a good deal of 
medical attention, and the money taken from him and 
put in some safe place. Don’t you know Miss Marlin 
well enough to suggest something like that?” 

Polly Wickes shook her head quickly. 

“Oh, you don’t understand, guardy!” she said anx- 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 129 

iously. “He has had medical attention. The very 
best specialist from New York has been here since I 
wrote you. And he says there is really absolutely noth¬ 
ing that can be done. Mr. Marlin is just the dearest 
old man you ever knew. It’s just on that one subject, 
not so much money as finance, though I don’t quite 
understand the difference, that he is insane. If he 
were taken away from here and shut up anywhere it 
would kill him. And, as Doctor Daemer said, what 
better place could there be than this? And anyway 
Dora wouldn’t hear of it. And as for taking the 
money away from him, nobody knows where it is.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe was staring at the 
bushes that fringed the verandah. 

“Oh!” he said quietly. “That puts quite a different 
complexion on the matter. I didn’t understand. I 
gathered from your letter that the money was more 
or less always in evidence. In fact, I think you said 
he showed it to you—a half million dollars in cash. 

“So he did,” Polly answered; “but that’s the only 
time I ever saw it; and I don’t think even Dora has 
ever seen it more than once or twice. He has got 
it hidden somewhere, of course; but as it would be 
the very worst thing in the world for him to get the 
idea into his head that any one was watching him in 
an effort to discover his secret, Dora has been very 
careful to show no signs of interest in it. Doctor 
Daemer warned her particularly that any suspicions 
aroused in her father’s mind would only accentuate the 
disease. Oh, guardy, it’s a terribly sad case; and 
insanity is such a horribly strange thing! He never 
seems to—” 

Polly was still talking. Captain Francis Newcombe 


130 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

inclined his head from time to time in assumed interest. 
He was no longer listening. Polly, the beauty of the 
night, his immediate surroundings, were, for the mo¬ 
ment, extraneous things. His mind was at work. In¬ 
credible luck! The problem that had troubled him, 
that he had never really solved, that he had, indeed, 
finally decided must be left to circumstances as he 
should find them here and be then governed thereby, 
was now solved in a manner that far exceeded any¬ 
thing he could possibly have hoped for. To obtain 
the actual possession of the money from a fuddle¬ 
brained old idiot had never bothered him—that was a 
very simple matter. But to get away with the money 
after the robbery had been committed had not ap¬ 
peared so simple. Some one on the island must be 
guilty. The circle would be none too wide. Fie must 
emerge without a breath of suspicion having touched 
him. Not so simple! There would have been a way, 
of course; wits and ingenuity would have supplied it 
but that had been the really intricate part of the 
undertaking. And now—incredible luck! He had 
naturally assumed that the household knew where the 
old madman kept his money; naturally assumed that 
there would be a beastly fuss and uproar over its 
disappearance but now there would be nothing of the 
kind. It might take a few days to solve the old fool’s 
secret, but in the main that would be child’s play; 
after that, if by any unfortunate chance an accident 
happened to Mr. Jonathan P. Marlin, the whereabouts 
of the money would forever remain a mystery—save 
to one Captain Francis Newcombe. No one could, 
or would, be accused of having taken it! 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 131 

. . Guardy, you quite understand, don’t you?” 
ended Polly Wickes. 

Captain Francis Newcombe smiled at the upturned, 
serious face. 

“Quite, Polly! Quite!” he answered earnestly. 
“Very fully, I might say. It must be very hard indeed 
on Miss Marlin. I am so sorry for her. I wish there 
were something we might do. Your being here must 
have been a blessing to her.” 

The colour stole into Polly Wickes’ cheeks. 

“Guardy, you’re a dear!” she whispered. 

“Am I?” he said—and took possession of her hand. 

What a soft, cool little palm it was! What an 
entrancing little figure! Who would have dreamed 
that Polly would develop into so lovely—no, not lovely 
—damn it, she was divine! Polly and a half million! 
Why Locke? Curse Locke! The eyes and lips of a 
dream woman, he had said; a half million—both his 
for the taking! Did he ask still more? He was not 
so sure about Locke having her. No, it wasn’t the 
night drugging his senses and steeping his soul in fanci¬ 
ful possession of desires. It was real. If it pleased 
him, he had only to take, to drink his fill to satiation 
of this goblet of the gods. There was nothing to stay 
him. He had builded for it, and he was entitled to 
it; it wasn’t chance. Chance! There was strange 
laughter in his heart. Chance was the playground of 
fools! Why shouldn’t he laugh, aye, and boastingly! 
Who was to deny him what he would; this woman if 
he wanted her, the— 

He stood suddenly like a man dazed and stunned. 
He let fall the girl’s hand. Was he mad, insane, 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


132 

his mind unbalanced; was reason gone? It had come 
out of the night, a mocking thing, a voice that jeered 
and rocked with wild mirth. 

His eyes met Polly’s. She was frightened, startled; 
her face had gone a little white. 

Imagination? As he had imagined that night in his 
cabin on board ship? A voice of his own creation? 
No; it came again now, jarring, crashing, jangling 
through the stillness of the night: 

“Shadow Varne! Shadow Varne! Ha, ha! Ha, 
ha!” It rose and fell; now almost a scream; now 
hoarse with wild, untrammelled laughter. “Shadow 
Varne! Shadow Varne! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!” And 
then like a long, drawn-out eerie call: “Shad-ow 
V a-arne!” 

And then the soft whispering of the leaves through 
the trees, and no other sound. 

“What is it? What is it?” Polly cried out. “What 
a horrible voice!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s hand, hidden in his 
pocket, held a revolver. To get rid of the girl now! 
The voice had come from the woods in the direction 
of the shore. A voice! Shadow Varne! Who called 
Shadow Varne here on this island where Shadow 
Varne had never been heard of? He was cold as 
ice now; cold with a merciless fury battering at his 
heart. He did not know—but he would know! And 
then— 

“You run along into the house, Polly.” He forced 
a cool sang-froid into his voice. “It’s probably noth¬ 
ing more than some of the negroes you spoke of in 
your letter cat-calling out there on the water; or else 
some one with a perverted sense of humour in the 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 


i33 

woods here trying to spoof us—and in that case a 
lesson is needed. Quick now, Polly! It’s time you 
were in bed anyway. And say nothing about it— 
there’s no use raising an alarm over what probably 
amounts to nothing. I’ll tell you all about it in the 
morning.” 

She was still staring at him in a frightened, startled 
way. 

“But, guardy,” she faltered, “you—” 

Damn the girl! She was wasting precious mo¬ 
ments! But he could not explain that he had a per¬ 
sonal interest in that cursed voice, could he? 

He smiled reassuringly. 

“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning—if there’s 
anything to tell,” he repeated. “Now, run along. 
Good-night, dear!” 

“Good-night, guardy,” she said hesitatingly. 

He watched her start toward the house; then he 
swung quickly from the road into the woods. He 
swore savagely to himself. She had kept him too long. 
There was very little chance now of finding the owner 
of that voice. Had there ever been? What did it 
matter, the moment or so it had taken to get rid of 
Polly? The odds were all with the voice, and had 
been from the start. He was not only metaphorically, 
but literally, stabbing in the dark. What did it mean? 
Again he swore, and swore now through clenched 
teeth. He knew well enough what it meant. It meant 
what he knew now that shot through his cabin window 
had meant. It meant that he was known to some 
one as he should be known to no one. It meant that 
of two men on this island, there was room for only 
one; otherwise it promised disaster, exposure—the 


i 3 4 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

end. A strangling, horrible end—on the end of a 
rope. 

A door of the past ajar! 

Who? Who? 

He was making too much noise! Rather than stalk¬ 
ing his game, he was more likely to be stalked. He 
had been stalked—when that voice had cried out. 
He halted—listened. Nothing! But it was some¬ 
where in here that the voice had come from. He 
could swear to that. 

He worked forward again. Damn the trees and 
foliage! How could one go quietly when one had to 
fight one’s way through? And it was soggy and wet 
underfoot—one’s feet made squeaky, oozy noises. 

He came out on the beach—a long, curving stretch 
of sand, glistening white in the moonlight. He was 
amazed that he had travelled so far. How far had 
he travelled? His mind, like his soul, was in a state 
of fury, of fear; there was upon him a frenzy, the 
urge of self-preservation, to kill. 

A structure of some kind, extending out into the 
sea, loomed up a distance away over to the right. He 
stared at it. It was a boathouse; and its ornate, ex¬ 
aggerated size stamped it at once as an adjunct to 
the mad millionaire’s mansion. But the voice had not 
come from the boathouse—it had come from the 
woods back in here behind him. 

Captain Francis Newcombe retraced his steps into 
the woods again, but now with far greater caution 
than before; and presently, his revolver in his hand, 
he sat down upon the stump of a tree. He held his 
hand up close before his eyes. It was steady, without 
sign of tremor. That was better! He was cooler 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 


135 

now—no, cool; not cooler—quite himself. If he could 
not move here in the woods without making a noise, 
neither could any one else. And from the moment 
that voice had flung its threat and jeer through the. 
night there had been no sound in the underbrush. He 
had listened, straining his ears for that very thing, 
even while he had manoeuvred to get Polly out of the 
road without arousing suspicion anent himself in her 
mind. He was listening now. It was the only chance. 
True, whoever it was might have been close to the 
beach, or close to the road, and had already escaped, 
and in that case he was done in; but on the other hand, 
the man, if it were a man and not a devil, might very 
well have done what he, Captain Francis Newcombe, 
was doing now, remained silent and motionless, secure 
in the darkness. If that were so then, sooner or later, 
the other must make a move. 

Silly? Impossible? A preposterous theory? Per¬ 
haps! But there was no alternative hope of catching 
the other to-night. Why hadn’t he adopted this plan 
from the start? How sure was he after all that, 
covered by the noise he himself had made, the other 
had not got away? 

The minutes passed—five, ten of them. There was 
no sound. The silence itself became heavy. It began 
to palpitate. It grew even clamorous, thundering 
ghastly auguries, threats and gibes in his ears. And 
then it began to take up a horrible sing-song refrain: 
“Who was it? Who was it? Who was it?” 

What would to-morrow bring? Shadow Varne! It 
was literally a death sentence, wasn’t it?—unless he 
could close forever those bawling lips! He felt the 
grey come creeping into his face. He, who laughed 


136 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

at fear, who had laughed at it all his life, save through 
that one night on board the ship, was beginning to 
fight over again his battle for composure. Shadow 
Varne! Shadow Varne! Hell itself seemed striving 
to shake his nerve. 

Well, neither hell nor anything else could do it! 
There were those who had learned that to their cost! 
And, it seemed, there was another now who was yet 
to learn it! His teeth clamped suddenly together in 
a vicious snap, and suddenly he was on his feet. 
Faintly there came the rustle of foliage—it came 
again. He could not place its direction at first. It 
might be an animal. No! The rustling ceased. 
Some one was running now on the road in the direc¬ 
tion of the dock—but a long way off. 

He lunged and tore his way through trees and un¬ 
dergrowth, and broke into the clear of the road. He 
raced madly along it. He could see nothing ahead 
because of those infernal moon-flecked turnings that 
he had been fool enough to rave over on his way to 
the house. Nothing! He drew up for a second and 
listened. Nothing! He spurted on again. A game 
of blindman’s-buff—and he was blindfolded! 

He came out into the clearing with the dock in 
sight. Again he stopped and listened. Still nothing! 

His lips tightened. It was futile. He would only 
be playing the fool to grope further around in the 
darkness in what now could be but the most aimless 
fashion, robbed even of a single possible objective. 
He could not search the island! There was nothing 
left to do but go on board. 

He started out along the dock—and then suddenly, 
as his eyes narrowed, his stride became nonchalant, 


THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT 


137 

debonair. He fell to whistling softly a catchy air 
from a recent musical comedy. Runnells had not gone 
to bed. Runnells was stretched out on his back on 
the deck of the yacht smoking a pipe, his head propped 
up on a coil of rope. 

Captain Francis Newcombe dropped lightly from 
the wharf to the deck. 

“Hello, Runnells,” he observed, as he halted in 
front of the other, “the artistry of the night got you, 
too? Well, I must say, it’s too fine to waste all of 
it at any rate in sleep.” 

“You’re bloody well right, it is!” said Runnells. 
“Strike me pink, if it ain’t! I’ve heard of these here 
places from the time I was born, but I wouldn’t have 
believed it if I hadn’t laid here smoking my pipe and 
saying to myself, this here’s you, Runnells, and that 
there’s it. London! I can do without London for a 
bit!” 

“Quite so!” said Captain Francis Newcombe. He 
leaned over and ran his fingers along the sole of 
Runnells’ upturned boot. 

Runnells sat up with a jerk. 

“What the ’ell are you doing?” he ejaculated. 

“Striking a match,” said Captain Francis New¬ 
combe, as he lighted a cigarette. “You don’t mind, 
do you? It saves the deck.” 

Runnells, with a grunt, returned his head to the 
comfort of the coiled rope. 

“Locke turned in?” inquired Captain Francis New¬ 
combe casually. 

“About ten minutes after you left,” said Runnells. 
“That engine did him down, if you ask me. I mixed 
him a peg, and he was off like a shot.” 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


138 

“Well, I don’t know of anything better to do my¬ 
self,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

He turned and walked slowly toward the cabin 
companionway; but aft by the rail he paused for a 
moment, and, flinging his cigarette overboard, watched 
it as it struck the water, and listened as it made a tiny 
hiss—like a serpent’s hiss. 

His face for an instant became distorted, then set 
in hard, deep lines. 

Who was it? 

The sole of Runnells’ boot was dry—quite dry. 


—Ill 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 

_ » 

TT’S an amazing place!” said Howard Locke. 

I “Yes; isn’t it?” said Polly Wickes. “But, 
come along; you haven’t seen it all yet.” 

“Is there more?” Howard Locke asked with pre¬ 
tended incredulity. “I’ve seen a private power plant; 
an aquarium that contains more varieties of fish than 
I ever imagined swam in the sea; a house as mag¬ 
nificent and spacious as a palace; stables; gardens; 
flowers; bowers of Eden. More! Really?” 

“I think guardy was right,” observed Polly Wickes 
naively. 

“Yes?” inquired Howard Locke. 

Polly Wickes arched her eyebrows. 

“He said you weren’t a ladies’ man.” 

“Oh!” said Howard Locke with a grin. “So he’s 
been talking behind my back, has he?” 

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted. 

“And may I ask why you agree with him—why I 
am condemned?” 

“Because,” said Polly Wickes, “it would have been 
ever so much nicer, instead of saying what you did, 
to have expressed delight that the tour of inspection 
wasn’t over—something about charming company, you 
know, even if everything you saw bored you to death.” 

“Unfair!” Locke frowned with mock severity. 
“Most unfair! I was going to say something like 
that, and now I can’t because you’ll swear you put the 
words into my mouth and I simply parroted them.” 

139 


140 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“Sir,” she said airily, “will you see the bungalows 
and the pickaninnies next, or the boathouse?” 

“I am contrite and humble,” he said meekly. 

Polly Wickes’ laughter rippled out on the air. 

“Come on, then!” she cried, and, turning, began 
to run along the path through the grove of trees where 
they had been walking. 

Locke followed. She ran like a young fawn! He 
stumbled once awkwardly—and she turned and 
laughed at him. He felt the colour mount into his 
cheeks—felt a tinge of chagrin. Was she vamping 
him; did she know that if his eyes had been occupied 
with where he was going, and not with her, he would 
not have stumbled? Or was she just a little sprite 
of nature, full to overflowing with life, buoyant, and 
the more glorious for an unconscious expression of 
the joy of living? Amazing, he had called what he 
had seen on this island since he had been installed 
here as a guest that morning, but most amazing of all 
was Newcombe’s ward. Newcombe’s ward! It was 
rather strange! Who was she? How had a girl like 
this come to be Captain Newcombe’s ward? New- 
combe had not been communicative save only on the 
point that since she had gone to America to school 
Newcombe had not see her. Rather strange, that, 
too! He was conscious that she piqued him one mo¬ 
ment, while the next found him possessed of a mad 
desire to touch, for instance, those truant wisps of 
hair that now, as she stood waiting for him on the 
edge of the shore, a little out of breath, the colour 
glowing in her cheeks, she retrieved with deft little 
movements of her fingers. 

Her colour deepened suddenly. 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


141 

“That's the boathouse over there,” she said. 

“I—I beg your pardon,” said Locke in confusion. 
And then deliberately: “No; I don’t!” 

Polly Wickes stared. Again the colour in her 
cheeks came and went swiftly. 

“Oh!” she gasped; then hurriedly: “Well, perhaps, 
that is better! Don’t you think those two little 
bridges from the rocks up to the boathouse are awfully 
pretty?” 

“Awfully!” laughed Locke. 

“You’re not looking at them at all,” said Polly 
Wickes severely. 

“Yes, I am,” asserted Locke. “And just to prove 
it, I was going to ask why that amazing structure— 
you see, I said amazing again—that looks more like 
the home of a yacht club than a private boathouse, is 
built out into the water like that, and requires those 
bridges at all? Is it on account of the tide? I see 
there’s no beach here.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Polly Wickes. “But 
they are pretty, aren’t they?—and the place does look 
like a clubhouse. And it looks more like one inside— 
there’s a lovely little lounging room with an open fire¬ 
place, and I can’t begin to tell you what else. Shall 
we go in?” 

“Yes, rather!” said Locke. 

He was studying the place now with a yachtsman’s 
eye. It was built out from the rocky shore a con¬ 
siderable distance, and rested on an outer series of 
small concrete piers, placed a few feet apart; while, 
by stooping down, he could see, beneath the overhang 
of the verandah, a massive centre pier, wide and long, 
obviously the main foundation of the building. At the 


142 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

two corners facing the shore were the little bridges, 
built in shape like a curving ramp and ornamented with 
rustic railings, that she had referred to. These led 
from a point well above high water mark on the shore 
to the verandah of the boathouse itself. 

“Mr. Marlin must be an enthusiast,” he said, as 
he followed his guide across one of the bridges. 

Polly Wickes did not answer at once, and they began 
to make the circuit of the verandah. 

Howard Locke glanced at her. Her face had be¬ 
come suddenly sobered, the dark eyes somehow deeper, 
a sensitive quiver now around the corners of her lips. 
His glance lengthened into an unconscious stare. She 
could be serious then—and, yes, equally attractive 
in that mood. It became her. He wondered if she 
knew it became her? That was cynical on his part. 
Was he trying to arm himself with cynicism? Well, 
it was easily pierced then, that armour! It was a 
very wonderful face; not merely beautiful, but fine in 
the sense of steadfastness, self-reliance and sincerity. 
He was a poor cynic! Why not admit that she at¬ 
tracted him as no woman had ever attracted him be¬ 
fore? 

They had reached the seaward side of the verandah. 
Here a short dock was built out to meet a sort of sea¬ 
wall that gave protection to any craft that might be 
berthed there—but the slip was empty of boats. 

She looked up at him now, as she answered his ob¬ 
servation. 

“He was,” she said slowly; “but all the boats are 
stowed away inside now. Poor Mr. Marlin!” She 
turned away abruptly, her eyes suddenly moist. “Let’s 
go inside.” , 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


143 

They found a cosy corner in the little lounging room 
of which she had spoken, and seated themselves. 

Locke picked up the thread of their conversation. 

“You’re very fond of him, aren’t you, Miss 
Wickes?” he said gently. 

“Yes,’’ she said simply. 

“It’s a very strange case,” said Howard Locke. 

“And a very, very sad one,” said Polly Wickes. 
“I don’t know how much Dora—Miss Marlin—has 
said to you, or perhaps even Mr. Marlin himself, for 
he is sometimes just like—like anybody else, so I 
don’t—” 

“I hardly think it could be a case of trespassing 
on confidences in any event,” Locke interrupted 
quietly. “It’s rather well known outside; that is, in 
what might be called the financial world, you know. 
What I can’t understand, though, is that, having lost 
all his money, a place like this could still be kept up.” 

Polly Wickes shook her head thoughtfully. 

“Guardy was speaking about the same thing,” she 
said; “but I don’t think it costs so very much now. 
You see, it is almost in a way self-supporting—the 
vegetables, and fruit, and fuel and all that. And the 
servants all have their little homes, and have lived 
on the island for years, and the wages are not very 
high, and anyway Dora has a fortune in her own 
name—from her mother, you know; and, besides, 
thank goodness, dear old Mr. Marlin hasn’t lost all 
his money anyway.” 

“Not lost it?” ejaculated Locke. “Why, that was 
the cause of his mind breaking!” 

Polly Wickes looked up in confusion. 

“Oh, perhaps, I shouldn’t have said that,” she said 


144 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

nervously. “But—but, after all, I don’t see why I 
shouldn’t, for you could not help but know about it 
before very long. Indeed, I shouldn’t be a bit sur¬ 
prised if Mr. Marlin showed it to you himself, just 
as he did to me, for he seems to have taken a great 

fancy to you. He hardly let you out of his sight this 
morning.” 

He knows of my father in a business way,” said 
Locke. “I suppose that’s it. Do you mean that he 
showed you a sum of money here on this island?” 

“Yes,” said Polly Wickes slowly, “after I had been 
here a little while; a very large sum—half a million, 
he said.” 

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Locke. “That’s hardly 
safe, is it? I know the peculiar form his disease has 
taken is an antipathy to all investments, but can’t Miss 
Marlin persuade him to deposit it somewhere?” 

“That’s exactly what guardy said,” nodded Polly 
Wickes. But it s quite useless. Dora has tried, but 
her father won’t even tell her where he keeps it.” 

Howard Locke rose from his chair, walked over 
to the empty fireplace, and, standing with his back 
to Polly Wickes, opened his cigarette case. 

“Captain Newcombe, of^course, is quite au fait with 
the conditions?” he observed casually. 

Of course, said Polly Wickes ingenuously. “I 
naturally wrote him all about it.” 

“Naturally!” agreed Howard Locke. 

He stooped over, and, striking a match on the edge 
of the fireplace, lighted his cigarette. So Captain 
Francis Newcombe had known all about it, had he, 
even before he had left England? And yet Captain 
Francis Newcombe in the smoking room of the liner 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


145 

on the way across had been densely in ignorance, and 
even alarmed for his ward’s safety at the first intima¬ 
tion that her host was a monomaniac! It was rather 
peculiar! More than peculiar! 

Locke turned, and, leaning against the mantel over 
the fireplace, faced Polly Wickes. His mind was work¬ 
ing swiftly, piecing together strange and apparently 
irrelevant fragments, that, irrelevant as they appeared, 
seemed to make a most suggestive whole. Captain 
Newcombe had lied that night on board the liner. 
Why? Who was it that had invaded his, Locke’s 
stateroom and had searched through his belongings? 
And why? Why was it that now for the first time in 
four years Captain Newcombe should have come to 
visit his ward in America? He had more than New- 
combe’s word for that—Polly here had said so her¬ 
self; and Miss Marlin had referred to it in the most 
natural way when welcoming Newcombe that morning. 
What had an insane old man, who hid away a half- 
million dollars on a little island in the Florida Keys, 
got to do with the letter received in London and con¬ 
taining those facts that Polly Wickes had just admitted 
she had written? What di^lt mean? Was a certain, 
insistent deduction to be carried to a logical conclu¬ 
sion, or was he hunting a mare’s nest in his mind? 
Was it a mere coincidence in life, where far stranger 
coincidences were daily happenings—or was it a half¬ 
million dollars? And Polly Wickes, here? Captain 
Francis Newcombe—and his ward! Was it a bird of 
paradise in cahoots with a vulture? No, he wouldn’t 
believe that! It was preposterous! There weren’t 
any grounds for it anyway. He was an irresponsible 
fool. He became angry with himself. He was worse 


146 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


than a fool—he was a cad! The girl’s very ingenuous¬ 
ness in what she had said put to rout any possibility 
of connivance. But, damn it—Captain Newcombe’s 
ward! How? What was the explanation of that? 
And if— 

Polly Wickes’ small foot beat the floor in a sharp 
little tattoo. 

Locke straightened up with a start. An his fit of 
abstraction he had been gazing at the girl with abomi¬ 
nable rudeness. 

I forgot to say,” said Polly Wickes severely, “that 
besides saying you were not a ladies’ man, guardy said 
something else about you.” 

No! Surely not!” Locke forced a mock dismay 
into his voice. “What was it?” 


Polly Wickes took a critical survey of the toe of her 
spotless white shoe. 

“He said he didn’t know whether I would like you 
or not.” 


Locke took a step forward from the fireplace. 

“And do you?” he Remanded. 

“I do not,” she said promptly; “at least not when 
I am utterly ignored for a whole five minutes, except 

to be stared at as though I were a specimen under a 
microscope.” 

“Pm awfully sorry,” said Locke contritely; “really 

I am. I was thinking of what we had been savins 
about Mr. Marlin, and—” 

She suddenly lifted a warning finger. 

There he is now, she said in a low voice. 

Locke turned around. His back had been to the 
door, leading to the seaward side of the verandah, 
which they had left open behind them. Mr. Marlin 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


147 

was peering cautiously around the jamb of the door— 
and now, as the blue eyes under the silvered hair, which 
was rumpled and astray, caught his, Locke’s, the old 
man thrust a beckoning finger into view. 

Locke glanced at Polly Wickes. 

“I think,” she said in a whisper, “that he has been 
acting more strangely just of late than ever before. 
He wants you for something. Of course, you must go 
and see what it is.” 

“All right,” said Locke. 

He walked quietly across the room, and out on to 
the verandah. 

“You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Marlin?” he said 
pleasantly. 

It was a queer, strangely contradictory figure, that 
of the little, stoop-shouldered, old man, who now seized 
his arm in feverish haste and led him hurriedly away 
from the door. And quite a different figure from the 
Mr. Marlin of the morning! The white clothes were 
spruce and immaculate, but he wore no hat, and, as 
Locke had already noted, his. hair was dishevelled. 
The thin, almost gaunt face, a rather fine old face, had 
lost the calm and composure that had marked it, for 
instance, a few hours ago at lunch, and there was now 
a furtive, hunted look in the eyes, a spasmodic twitch¬ 
ing of the facial muscles, a sort of pathetic tearing 
aside of the veil that had so jealously striven to hide 
the man’s affliction; and yet too, and perhaps even more 
pathetic in this particular, there seemed to cling intan¬ 
gibly about the old financier a certain dignity of manner 
and bearing—the one heritage possibly of the days 
when he had been a power, his name a talisman in the 
money markets of the world. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


148 

“I don’t want her to hear,” said Mr. Marlin mys¬ 
teriously. “I can’t trust her, Locke.” 

“Can’t trust her!” repeated Locke. “You can’t trust 
Miss Wickes? Why, surely, Mr. Marlin, you are mak¬ 
ing a mistake. Why can’t you trust her?” 

“Because,” said the old man sharply, “she is the 
ward of Captain Newcombe.” 

Locke stared into the other’s face. A half angry, 
half—yes, that was it—cunning gleam had come into 
the blue eyes. 

“What is the matter with Captain Newcombe?” he 
asked bluntly. 

“He’s a philanthropist,” snapped Mr. Marlin. “A 
philanthropist! And all philanthropists are fools— 
with money.” 

“Oh!” said Locke a little helplessly. “So that’s it, 
is it? Yes, of course! But I did not know Captain 
Newcombe was a philanthropist.” 

“What else is he?” demanded Mr. Marlin fiercely. 
Polly Wickes herself proves it. Do you know who 
Polly Wickes is? No; you don’t! I’ll tell you! I 
heard her tell Dora. She was a poor girl—sold 
flowers on the street corners in London. Newcombe 
spends his money like water on her—education—clothes 

thousands. He is a philanthropist, that is 
enough!” 

“Good Lord!” muttered Locke to himself. The 
man hadn’t been anything like this during the several 
hours that, off and on, he had been in the other’s com¬ 
pany that morning. The man had seemed almost, if 
not wholly, rational then. It was one of the idiosyn¬ 
cratic phases of the disease, of course. There was 
nothing to do but humour him. Captain Francis New- 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


149 

combe a philanthropist! Five minutes ago he had 
come to quite another conclusion! 

“Yes; I see,” he said seriously. They had walked 
around the corner of the verandah, and now halfway 
down the side he halted. “But there was something 
you wanted to speak to me about, Mr. Marlin, wasn’t 
there?” 

“Yes,” said the old man eagerly. He looked cau¬ 
tiously around him in all directions. “I put great faith 
in you as your father’s son. I have never met your 
father; but I know of him. I know a great deal about 
him. He is a power. You must influence him. The 
world is facing a crisis, but we may yet save it from 
ruin. I must have a conference with you where no one 
can hear or see. No one must see —do you under¬ 
stand? That is most important. Some people think 
I am a little touched in the head; but they are the fools. 
I shall show you, my boy, for I shall have with me the 
proof that I am in earnest, and the evidence that I 
practise what I preach. You shall see for yourself 
who is the fool. To-morrow night”—he fumbled in 
the pocket of his coat, and drew out a little book— 
“what day is to-day, and what is the date? Yes, yes, 
of course; this is Tuesday, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” said Locke gravely; “to-day is Tuesday.” 

“Tuesday, the twenty-fifth,” mumbled the old man, 
as he consulted the book. “Yes, yes!” He returned 
the book to his pocket. “Very well, then, to-morrow 
night. Meet me in the aquarium to-morrow night at 
a quarter past two.” 

Locke, for the sake of nonchalance, carefully se¬ 
lected another cigarette from his case and lighted it. 
A quarter past two to-morrow night! If it were not 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


I 5 ° 

pitiable, it would be absurd that the old man should 
have come down here in this manner to the boathouse 
to make an appointment for to-morrow night, when in 
the natural course of events he would have been af¬ 
forded an endless number of infinitely more convenient 
opportunities to make the same request! And why 
to-morrow night, other than to-night, or this after¬ 
noon, or even now? And why at such an hour? It 
was useless to ask the question for it found its answer 
simply in the workings of a poor, unhinged mind—and 
yet Locke found himself asking the question mechan¬ 
ically. 

“That’s a rather unusual hour, isn’t it, Mr. Mar¬ 
lin? And why to-morrow night? Why not to-night, 
for instance ?” 

The old man came close, and gripped Locke’s arm 
again with feverish intensity. He looked all around 
him, then placed his lips to Locke’s ear. 

“I’ll tell you why,” he whispered. “Since last night 
I have been watched and followed—watched and fol¬ 
lowed all the time, all the time, all the time. They 
think I am mad, that my reason is gone. Ha, ha, can 
you imagine that, young man? Well, they will see! 
And so it cannot be to-night, for I must be very care¬ 
ful, and I must have time to prepare. And the hour? 
You do not understand that? Well, I will tell you 
something else. The hour is fixed; it cannot be al¬ 
tered; it cannot be changed. It is fixed.” He gripped 
suddenly with a fiercer pressure on Locke’s arm. “Ha! 
Did I not tell you I was always being watched and 
followed?” he breathed excitedly. “Listen! Listen! 
There is some one coming now!” 

The old man was trembling violently. Locke laid 


THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


151 

his hand reassuringly upon the other’s shoulder. It 
was quite true that there was distinctly the sound of 
some one’s footsteps coming across one of the little 
bridges from the shore, the one on the far side of the 
boathouse from where they stood obviously, for the 
one on this side was in plain view. 

“Why, Mr. Marlin,” Locke smiled, “it’s only some 
one coming to the boathouse. That’s quite natural. 
There’s nothing to cause you alarm in that. But 
just to set your mind at rest we’ll go and see who it 
is. 

“No, no!” whispered Mr. Marlin fiercely. “No one 
must know that I suspect anything. I can elude them 
—they’re around on the other side now. You stay 
here. Don’t move! I’m going now. But remember! 
To-morrow night! You will remember?” 

“Yes; of course, Mr. Marlin,” Locke replied sooth¬ 
ingly. 

The old man laid his finger to his lips. 

“And not a word about it! No one must know! 
Keep silent! You will see! You will see! But I 
must be quick now! I will elude them. Keep silent—• 
not a word!” 

The old man was running at top speed along the 
verandah. 

Locke leaned against the railing, his face strangely 
set, as he watched the flying figure cross the bridge, 
and, with head constantly jerking around to peer first 
over one shoulder and then the other, disappear finally 
along the shore. 

“Good Lord!” muttered Locke to himself again. 
“And this morning he appeared to be as sane as I am!” 
He frowned suddenly. “Queer obsession, that—of 


152 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

being constantly watched! Since last night! I won¬ 
der!” 

He straightened up abruptly, and drew a letter from 
his pocket. He read it slowly, carefully, several times, 
as though almost he were memorising it; and then he 
began to tear it into little pieces. 

“I guess it’s safer,” he confided to himself; and then 
with a grim smile: “Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t 
have anything like this with me that night on board 
ship!” 

He threw the pieces over into the water, but one 
fluttered back through the railing. And, staring at 
this, he laughed a little shortly as his eyes deciphered 
the typewritten fragment on the verandah floor: 


(11 reports approved. Use evj 
w Scotland Yard fully pror 


He picked it up, tore it into minute shreds, searched 
carefully to make sure there were no other wayward 
scraps, and then started slowly back along the verandah 
to rejoin Polly Wickes. 

His mind seemed in confusion, coherence smothered 
in a multitude of thoughts that impinged one upon the 
other, each vociferating its right to sole consideration. 
There was Newcombe and that smoking room scene 
on the liner, and a letter advising about a half-million 
dollars, and a madman, and—no—there was some¬ 
thing else, something that was gradually gaining prior¬ 
ity over the rest. Yes—Polly Wickes! Well, Pblly 
Wickes, then ... a flower girl in London ... a 
lady four years later in America . . . how old had 



THE MAD MILLIONAIRE 


153 

she been when this had happened . . . how old had 
she been . . . confound it, what did he mean by that 
. . . what did he mean . . . she couldn’t have been 
more than a child ... a mere child. . . . 

He halted abruptly at the sound of his own name. 
Unconsciously he had almost reached the door leading 
into the lounging room of the boathouse. Polly 
Wickes was talking to some one—to whoever it was, 
of course, whose arrival at the boathouse had fright¬ 
ened old Mr. Marlin away a few minutes ago. Ah, 
yes ! Newcombe! That was Newcombe laughing now. 

“But just the same,” said Polly Wickes, “it does 
seem a little strange to me that Mr. Locke would make 
such a trip with you on so short acquaintance.” 

“Nonsense!” replied Captain Francis Newcombe. 
“There’s nothing strange about it. You don’t know 
that type of young American, that’s all. The ‘short 
acquaintance’ end of it is purely the insular English 
viewpoint. .He had a holiday on his hands, as I told 
you, and he meant to spend it on his boat somewhere. 
We hit it off splendidly together coming over, and— 
well, we’ve hit it off splendidly ever since. That’s all.” 

“Let’s change the subject, then,” said Polly Wickes. 

Captain Francis Newcombe laughed complacently. 

“I was going to,” he said. “I want to speak to you 
about last night.” 

“I don’t care for your choice,” said Polly Wickes 
in what seemed to Locke like sudden agitation. “I 
haven’t been able to get that horrible cry out of my 
mind all day, and I hardly slept at all when I went to 
bed.” 

“But, my dear, that is utterly absurd!” Captain 
Francis Newcombe returned, with another laugh. “I 


154 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

can only repeat what I said to you this morning that 
it must have been some boatmen out on the water cat¬ 
calling to each other. I was startled myself at first, 
and a bit angry, I’ll admit, at the thought that some 
one was taking liberties with us; but I am quite sure 
now it was nothing of the kind. You mustn’t give it 
another thought—really. It isn’t worth it! But I 
wasn’t going to refer to that again. What I wanted 
to know was whether or not you told Miss Marlin 
about seeing her father out there at that hour of 
night?” 

“Yes,” said Polly Wickes. “I told her; and she 
said she knew he sometimes went out night after night 
for a number of nights, and that, strangely enough, 
he’d go out later each night until finally it would be 
just before daybreak when he left the house—and 
then, after that, for a long while he wouldn’t go out 
at all. She said she had never given her father an 
inkling that she knew, and had never put any restraint 
upon him. As I have told you, what the doctors have 
warned her about, and what she is more afraid of than 
anything else, is arousing any suspicion in her father’s 
mind that he requires watching or is being watched. 
There is the danger that he might become violent. In 
fact, it is almost certain that he would under such con¬ 
ditions, Doctor Daemer said.” 

“H’m!” commented Captain Francis Newcombe. 

A chair creaked within; a footstep sounded on the 
floor approaching the door. 

And Howard Locke retreated quietly around the 
corner of the boathouse. 


—IV. 


THE UNKNOWN 

I T was dark in the room, save where the moonlight 
stole in through the window and stretched a filmy 
path across the floor until, in a strange, nebulous 
way, it threw into relief a cheval-glass that stood 
against the opposite wall. And in the glass a shadowy 
picture showed: The reflection of a man’s figure seated 
in a chair, but curiously crouched as though about to 
spring, the shoulders bent a little forward, the head 
outthrust, the elbows outward, strained with weight, 
the hands clenched upon the arms of the chair. And 
then suddenly, with a low, snarling oath, the more 
vicious for its repression, the figure sprang from the 
chair, and stood with face thrust close against the 
mirror. 

It was Captain Francis Newcombe. 

He stared into the glass, his fists knotted at his 
sides. It was as though the tw T o faces flung a chal¬ 
lenge one at the other, each mocking the other in a 
sort of hideous imitation of every muscular move¬ 
ment. They were distorted—the lips drawrn back, dis¬ 
playing teeth as beasts might do; and in the shadows 
the eyes were lost, only the sockets showing like small, 
black, ugly, cavernous things. 

The minutes passed—long minutes. A meta¬ 
morphosis was taking place. The faces became more 
composed; they became debonair, suave—and finally 

155 


156 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

they smiled at one another as though a truce had been 
prpclaimed. 

Captain Francis Newcombe swung back to the chair, 
and flung himself down in it again. It was over for 
the moment. For the moment! Yes, that was it—for 
the moment! But it would come again. Last night 
in his bunk on the Talofa he had lain awake, and lived 
through hell. To-day, behind his mask of complai¬ 
sance, fear had gnawed. Fear! And it had been his 
boast that fear and he were strangers. 

His lips grew tight. 

Well, his boast still held good! What man had 
ever stood before him, and taunted him with fear! 
This was fear in a different sense. It was a fear of the 
intangible, of what he could not reach, or see, of what 
he could not materialise into actual form. It w T as the 
fear of the unknown. 

He was on his feet again. 

“Damn you!” he snarled. “Come out into the open 
and fight! You hell-hound, you spawn of the devil, 
come out, show your face—” 

No! Quiet! That would not do! He was in con¬ 
trol of himself again, wasn’t he? It was a game of 
wits against wits, of cunning matched against cunning. 
But against whom—and what was the stake this un¬ 
known, who had come to plague and torment him, 
played for? Revenge? The law? A Nemesis rising 
up out of forgotten things? 

His mind prodded and sifted and strove, and in its 
striving seemed to jar and jangle and crunch like the 
parts of some machinery in motion, which, out of gear, 
threatened at any moment to demolish itself. 

If he went mad—like Mr. Marlin! Fla, ha ! 


THE UNKNOWN 


i 57 

“By God!” he muttered grimly. “This is bad—a 
bad bit of nerves. If it was the same blighter who 
fired at me on shipboard, and it must have been, why 
didn’t he fire at me again last night when he had an 
even better chance, instead of yowling through the 
darkness?” 

That was better! It was fc the one trump card in his 
hand; the card that, as he had watched the daylight 
creep in through the tiny portholes of the Talofa that 
morning, had determined him, not only to carry on, 
but to make it serve as a trap to put an end to this 
skulking familiar who had fastened itself upon his 
trail. That wasn’t fear, was it? 

Shadow Varne! Who was the fool who dared to 
challenge Shadow Varne! 

He was smiling now—but his lips were thin and 
merciless. 

It could no longer be held attributable to some 
crazed, irresponsible act, that shot on shipboard, which 
chance had elected should be fired through his state¬ 
room window rather than through any other. Logic 
now denied that. The man who had fired that shot, 
and the man who had screamed out in taunting mock¬ 
ery at him last night, were one and the same. Well, 
who was it, then, who had been on the liner, and was 
now on Manwa Island? 

There were only two. Runnells and Locke! 

Had Runnells had time to change his shoes, or, 
granting the time, had cunning enough to have thought 
of doing so? No; the chances were a thousand to one 
against it. Locke, then? But Runnells had said that 
Locke hadn’t left the Talofa. Were Runnells and 
Locke in cahoots together? They had been extremely 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


158 

friendly on the way down. But Locke—it was pre¬ 
posterous ! He knew who Locke was—a young Amer¬ 
ican business man of good family. It was curious, 
though, that Polly should have made that remark to¬ 
day—about a trip like this on such short acquaintance. 
No; there was nothing in that. It had happened too 
naturally. Locke had a good many pairs of shoes. 
Like Runnells’, none of them had been wet; but he 
was not sure he had found all of them in the darkness 
in the cabin with Locke—supposedly at least—asleep 
there on the opposite bunk. Locke could easily have 
hidden a tell-tale pair; and Locke was decidedly the 
kind of man who would have had the intelligence to 
do so. 

But how could Locke know him as Shadow Varne? 

Well, there was Runnells! 

His jaws set with a snap. Was it Runnells? There 
was one way to find out—within the next ten minutes— 
with his hands at Runnells’ throat! No; that would 
not do—not yet—save as a last resort. If it were not 
Runnells, then any act like that on his part would dis¬ 
close his hand, arouse Runnells’ suspicions that this 
trip to Manwa Island was perhaps, after all, not en¬ 
tirely a holiday jaunt! 

He began to pace up and down the room—but noise¬ 
lessly, without sound. His subconscious mind imposed 
the necessity for silence. 

His hands clenched until the nails bit into the palms. 
Who was it? What did it mean? WLat was at the 
bottom of it? There was no answer that solved the 
question even to the satisfaction of a tormented brain 
that would have grasped with eager relief at even a 
plausible conclusion. The law? If the law had proof 


THE UNKNOWN 


159 

that he was Shadow Varne, he would not be an instant 
at liberty—though he would never be taken alive again 
—not even under the helpless condition that had done 
him down in Paris for the first and only time, as that 
old busybody, Sir Harris Greaves, the fool who loved 
to play with lighted matches over a powder cask, had 
so unctuously set forth. But perhaps the law did not 
have proof, had only suspicion—was only playing a 
game to trip him into disclosing his identity. Re¬ 
venge? Then why not another shot last night, as on 
the liner; why— 

The cycle! The infernal and accursed cycle again! 

Well, whoever it was, they would play with Shadow 
Varne, would they? Fools! Did they think he was 
one, too—that he could not see the weak spot in their 
attack? Something was holding them back here on the 
island from a shot as on the liner; here, for some rea¬ 
son, an attempt to inspire fear was evidently being 
resorted to instead. Something kept them from com¬ 
ing out into the open; something necessitated this cat- 
and-mouse game. Something, if exposure were actu¬ 
ally within their power, prevented them from exposing 
him. 

That was it! That was it exactly—the one point 
on which he would stake everything and play out the 
game. Curse them and their childish tricks to frighten 
him! Exposure was the only thing he feared, because 
that would ruin every chance of success here; but if 
he was safe from exposure, or if exposure were only 
delayed long enough—and it need not be very long 
delayed, at that—he would have got, as he meant to 
get, in spite of God, or man, or the devil, what he had 
come for! 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


160 

There was another angle. What had transpired 
might not have anything to do with what had brought 
him here. 

Of course not! Why should it—essentially? But 
it was a menace, a hideous thing. It made him think of 
a picture he had seen somewhere—a gibbet at a bleak, 
wind-swept, dark-skyed cross-road with a figure dan¬ 
gling from it. One of those damned steel-plate en¬ 
gravings of the highwaymen days in England! 

The unknown! 

For a moment he stood still—and then suddenly 
both fists were raised above his head. That was a 
reason above all others why he should go on. The 
stakes were on the table. It was not merely a question 
of old Marlin’s money. Win or lose here, the menace 
of that voice that shrieked the name of Shadow Varne 
for all to hear now hung over his whole future. It 
must either be removed, or he, Shadow Varne, prom¬ 
ised with ghastly certainty to take the place of that 
dangling, swaying thing upon the gibbet chain. The 
menace was here. What better chance was there to 
fight it than here and now? Who was the more cun¬ 
ning? Who would misplay a card? 

Not Shadow Varne! 

A grim and cold composure came. He had two 
birds to kill with one stone now—that was all! 
Frighten Shadow Varne away? Bah! They did not 
know Shadow Varne—save only as a name to be 
screeched out from some safe retreat in the darkness! 
What might transpire in the secret recesses of his 
heart, the purely human fact that dismay and fear 
might prey at ugly moments upon him, was one thing; 
to halt him, to make him even hesitate, was another! 


THE UNKNOWN 


161 


He had never hesitated; he had but moved the more 
quickly, speeded up his plans, for time was a greater 
object now. He was at work at this very moment—- 
waiting until the house was quiet for the night. 

Well, it was time now, wasn’t it? 

A small flashlight played on the dial of his wrist 
watch. 

Just midnight! 

He nodded his head sharply, slipped across the room, 
and, with the door ajar, stood listening. A minute 
passed—another. There was no sound. He stepped 
out into the great, wide hall, and closed his door softly 
behind him. 

It was like a shadow moving now. 

That was Locke’s room there; Polly’s here—Dora 
Marlin’s opposite. He passed them by, silently de¬ 
scended the great staircase, made his way back along 
another wide hallway, and finally halted before a door. 
This was Mr. Marlin’s room. He listened intently. 
The sound of regular breathing, as of one asleep, was 
distinctly audible from within. 

He smiled grimly as he turned away, and cautiously 
let himself out through a French window in the living- 
room which opened on the verandah. From here, he 
dropped lightly to the lawn. 

The money was not hidden in the house. He was 
spared from the start any loss of time in an abortive 
search of that kind. There was too much significance 
attached to the old maniac’s act of creeping stealthily 
in and out under his own verandah in the dead of 
night; especially when added to this had been the in¬ 
formation gleaned from Polly that Mr. Marlin was 
in the habit of stealing out of the house at intervals 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


162 

for a succession of nights on end, though at a later 
hour each night. It was the obvious! But why a 
later hour each night? Rather queer! But the man’s 
brain was queer! Why try to square insanity with the 
rational? 

It was the secret under the verandah that interested 
him. 

But his mind, as he made his way noiselessly along 
the edge of the bushes that fringed the verandah, re¬ 
verted with a certain disturbing insistence to Polly. 
The girl hadn’t stopped talking about going back to 
England! She said he had promised her she should 
when her education was finished. Well, perhaps he 
had—as one makes a promise to quiet a child! She 
wanted to be with her mother. Quite natural! But 
she hadn’t any mother; and, if things went right here, 
he was rather inclined to believe that hereafter he 
preferred America to England as a permanent place 
of residence. He had reiterated his promise, of 
course. He couldn t afford to do anything else—yet. 
Sooner or later, he would have to “explain” to Polly; 
but when that time came, unless he had lost a certain 
facility in explanations that had never failed him yet, 
he should be able to turn even the fact that he had 
kept Mrs. Wickes death from her to his own account. 
And tell the truth, even if somewhat inverted, at that! 
Solicitude would be the keynote—that, since Mrs. 
Wickes was not really her mother, her visit here need 
not be spoiled by ill news that would keep. Solicitude 
and all that sort of idea. It was a good thing Mrs. 
Wickes was dead. Polly wouldn’t want to live in 
England now. Mrs. Wickes’ death settled that prob- 


THE UNKNOWN 163 

lem, which, otherwise, he would have had to find some 
other way of settling. 

A minor matter! Very minor! Why should it even 
have crossed his mind? There was first the money; 
then, as a corollary, when that was found, the distress¬ 
ingly fatal accident that would overtake poor old Mr. 
Marlin—and, woven into the warp and woof of this, 
the twisting of a certain windpipe that would screech 
its indiscretions for the last time to a far different tune! 

Ah, that was more like Shadow Varne! 

He parted the bushes and slipped in under the 
verandah. This was the spot where the old madman 
had disappeared from view last night. His flashlight 
was switched on now. It showed a well-defined path, 
if it could be called a path, where through much usage 
the earth and gravel had been pressed down close up 
against the side of the house. It led toward the rear. 
He followed it. It took him around the corner of the 
house, and here, under a flight of steps that led to the 
verandah above, he found himself confronted with a 
basement door. Captain Francis Newcombe smiled. 
He had never ranked the task of probing the old fool’s 
actions as one that demanded much ingenuity, or as 
presenting any particular difficulty. It was simply a 
question of watching the other without being seen him¬ 
self; and with the man’s mode of exit and entry from 
and into the house already known, the rest would al¬ 
most automatically take care of itself. 

He opened the door and stepped inside. The flash¬ 
light disclosed an ordinary basement storeroom, and, 
at one side, a flight of stairs. Captain Francis New¬ 
combe moved quickly, but without sound now. He 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


164 

crossed the basement and crept up the stairs. Here, 
at the top, another door confronted him. With the 
flashlight out, he opened this door cautiously—and 
again a smile touched his lips. He had rather ex¬ 
pected it! The door opened on the lower hall, and 
almost directly opposite Mr. Marlin’s room. 

He stepped across the hall and listened again at the 
old man’s door. There still came from within the 
sounds of occupancy; but instead now of the regular 
breathing as of one asleep, it was the sound as of one 
moving softly around within. 

Captain Francis Newcombe retreated to the stairs, 
closed the door behind him, descended the stairs, left 
the basement, and selected a spot amongst the trees at 
the edge of the lawn where he could command a view 
of the shrubbery bordering the verandah. It was still 
a little earlier than the hour last night when, according 
to Polly, Mr. Marlin had gone out, and if, in the 
bizarre workings of a warped brain, a later hour each 
night added to secretness and security, Mr. Marlin 
was not yet to be expected for a little while. Quite so! 
He, Captain Francis Newcombe, had formulated his 
own timetable on that basis. There was nothing to do 
now but wait. 

He frowned suddenly. Suppose, though, Mr. Mar¬ 
lin did not come out at all? This might well be one 
of the nights when— No! He shook his head de¬ 
cisively. To begin with, he had just heard the man 
moving around in his room after having previously 
been, or pretended that he had been, asleep; and if 
Polly’s report was based on fact, as it undoubtedly 
was, the old maniac, once started on his period of 
peregrinations, kept it up until, on the basis of a later 


THE UNKNOWN 


165 

hour each night, his final sortie was made just before 
daybreak—and taking into account the hour at which 
the old man had been out last night, Mr. Marlin ought 
at present to be in the thick of one of those periods of 
nocturnal activity that would endure for a number of 
consecutive nights to come. 

In a sort of grim mirth, he laughed softly now to 
himself. One night, not a number of nights, would be 
all that was required! It did not entail any distress¬ 
ingly laboured mental effort to understand why the old 
man went out—it was simply a question of where he 
went. 

The minutes dragged along. A quarter of an hour 
went by; it became half an hour—and then Captain 
Francis Newcombe drew back silently a little deeper 
in amongst the trees. Yes, there was the old maniac 
now, dressing gown and all, and cocking his head to 
and fro in all directions as he parted the bushes in 
emerging from under the verandah. A moment later, 
the old man scurried across the lawn to a spot not far 
from where he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was stand¬ 
ing. The woods here surrounding the house were full 
of little paths and walks, and the grotesque figure with 
the flapping gown now disappeared along one of these 
paths a few yards away. 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s lips twisted a little 
ironically as he took up the chase. The head that kept 
cocking itself around so idiotically would avail its 
owner little in the shape of protection! Apart from 
it being too dark to see more than a few feet in any 
direction now in the wooded path, he, Captain Francis 
Newcombe, had not the slightest intention of trying to 
keep the other in sight, much less run any risk of being 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


1 66 

seen himself. The sense of sound was quite sufficient 
—entirely adequate! Twigs and dried pine needles 
snapped eloquently under Mr. Marlin’s feet. Captain 
Francis Newcombe’s ironical smile deepened. His own 
rubber-soled yachting shoes, combined with a little pre¬ 
caution, might be relied upon to cause the old maniac 
no alarm! 

The chase led on, following the turnings and twist¬ 
ings of the path for perhaps three hundred yards, and 
then turned into a narrow intersecting by-path at the 
right. Here again Captain Francis Newcombe fol¬ 
lowed the sound of the other’s footsteps for perhaps 
another hundred yards—and then suddenly he halted. 
The footsteps had ceased abruptly. 

For a moment Captain Francis Newcombe remained 
motionless, listening; then with extreme caution he 
went forward again. He came presently to where the 
path ended at the edge of a small clearing; and here, 
though shadowy and indistinct, he could make out just 
in front of him the outline of what looked like a little 
cabane, or hut. He nodded his head complacently. 
From inside the hut he caught the sound of movement 
again. So this was where Mr. Marlin went at nights, 
was it! 

He crept forward on hands and knees now, careful 
to make not the slightest noise, made the circuit of 
the little hut, and halted again—this time on the side 
opposite from the door and beneath the single window 
that the place possessed. From what he had been able 
to make out in the darkness, the hut appeared to be 
in a more or less tumble-down and neglected condition. 
It was probably an old tool house or something of the 
sort. Well, that mattered very little! 


THE UNKNOWN 


167 

With his head well at one side of the window frame; 
to guard against any possibility of being seen from 
within, he brought his eyes to a level with the sill, and 
peered in. At first he could distinguish nothing; then 
gradually a shadowy figure took form in one corner 
and kept moving up and down with a motion, which, 
more than anything else that suggested itself to him, 
resembled the motion of a woman assiduously at work 
over a washboard. This was accompanied by a scrap¬ 
ing sound. 

Mr. Marlin was digging! 

Captain Francis Newcombe quietly sat down on the 
ground beneath the window. It was quite hopeless to 
expect to see anything more than he had seen—for the 
present! One would have asked a good deal to have 
asked more! The spot where the old maniac was 
at work was close up against the wall at the right 
of the door and almost directly opposite the win¬ 
dow ! 

The digging ceased. Another sound took its place— 
a sort of crooning, a sing-song droning sound. 
Words, snatches of sentences, became audible: 

. . All! All here! ... In the darkness where 
no one can see. . . . And I do not need to see—I feel. 
. . . Night after night I feel, and my fingers count. 
. . . Money! Money! . . . Ha, ha—and they do 
not understand. . . . Fools! All fools! . . . You 
will multiply yourself a hundred, a thousandfold. . . . 
Fools! Blind fools! . . . They would not listen. . . . 
They called me mad. . . .” 

The crooning went on. 

Captain Francis Newcombe with cool nonchalance 
made himself more comfortable now by propping his 


168 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

back against the side of the hut. When the old fool 
was through with his puling, and the fondling of that 
half million in banknotes that he imagined was so 
safely hidden, the next move would be in order. Until 
then there was nothing to do except to exercise what 
degree of patience he could. 

Patience! He stirred suddenly. Why exercise pa¬ 
tience? Was it, after all, absolutely necessary that 
he should? A moment’s work would do away with 
that senile old idiot now. Mr. Marlin would be found, 
but the money would not be found. That was the plan 
in its actual essence, wasn’t it? 

He snarled, then, angrily at himself under his 
breath. That was the method of the “cusher,” which, 
on a certain occasion, he had branded with so much 
contempt! The record of Shadow Varne was marred 
by no such crudeness as that. A cusher without art! 
It brought him a sense of intense irritation that the 
thought should even have entered his mind. 

Why had it? 

He shook his head. Was it impatience, or perhaps, 
rather, a prescience prompting him to be through and 
done with this with the least possible delay? Were 
the events that had happened since he had left England 
insidiously taking effect upon him to the detriment of 
his customary cold and measured judgment? Well, he 
would see to it that nothing of that sort should hap¬ 
pen! Crime was a science; its procedure was calcu¬ 
lated, methodical, orderly, denying scruples. Fie had 
always approached it as a science; he proposed never 
to approach it in any other way. The case in point, 
for instance: Once he knew exactly where this hidden 
half-million was, where he could lay his hands on it 


THE UNKNOWN 169 

whenever he desired at an instant’s notice—and he 
w r ould locate its precise position inside the hut there as 
soon as the old maniac returned home to his bed—Mr. 
Marlin would be removed. But that must be accom¬ 
plished apparently through an accident—and the acci¬ 
dent must be such as to serve as proof, so to speak, that 
Captain Francis Newcombe could not possibly have 
had any part in it. This became the more essential 
now in view of that infernal voice last night. The na¬ 
ture of the accident itself was a mere detail. The 
choice was legion. There had been others who, be¬ 
coming encumbrances in the path of Shadow Varne, 
had met with accidents. What folly to go in there 
now—and have the whole island aroused by the crime 
of murder and invaded by the police; with the crime 
itself proclaiming the fact that the murder had been 
done for the money the old madman was known to have 
had somewhere, but which was now obviously in the 
possession of some one, to wit, the murderer! 

Bah! What was the matter with him? Did he 
need to rehearse the obvious? Mr. Marlin’s secret 
would die with him; and, being unable to find the 
money, they would give the old maniac more credit for 
cunning and originality than was due to the moss-eaten 
method of selecting a hiding place under the floor of 
an old hut! The pitiful fool! Under the floor! That 
was where the treasure was always hidden—in every 
book he had ever read! 

The crooning continued. It began to get a little on 
his nerves. It was interminable. Would the man stay 
here until daylight? No; that was hardly likely—not 
if he ran true to form. Old Marlin hadn’t stayed out 
until daybreak last night when Polly and he, Captain 


170 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

Francis Newcombe, had watched the other go in under 
the verandah. 

It might have been an hour, though it seemed two, 
when at last Captain Francis Newcombe rose silently 
to his feet. The crooning had finally ceased, and in its 
place there came now a series of low, thudding sounds, 
as though soft earth were being tamped into place; 
and then he heard the door creak a little as it was 
opened and closed. An instant later the footsteps of 
the old man died away along the path by which he had 
come. 

Captain Francis Newcombe stepped quickly around 
to the other side of the hut, and tried the door. It was 
unlocked. He smiled in a sort of grim humour as he 
pushed it open, and, entering, closed it again behind 
him. That was the first sign of intelligence—no, ap¬ 
plied to a maniac, it could hardly be termed intel¬ 
ligence !—well then, craftiness that measured up in at 
least a little way to the intensive order of cunning 
with which the insane in general were popularly cred¬ 
ited. An unlocked door was no mean safe-guard. The 
last place one would expect to find, or look for, a half¬ 
million dollars would be behind an unlocked door! 

His flashlight threw an inquisitive circle of light 
around the interior. Whatever the place had been 
used for at one time, it was decidedly neglected and in 
disuse now. The flooring was in an advanced state of 
decay. His eyes followed the ray of the flashlight as 
it held on a spot on the flooring near the door. Yes, 
knowing beforehand that some pieces of the flooring 
there had been lifted, he could see that such was the 
case in spite of the fact that the pieces had been very 
neatly replaced. 


THE UNKNOWN 


171 

The flashlight continued its tour of inspection. 
There was a pile of rubbish and some old barrels over 
in the far corner. He stepped quickly across to these 
and nodded his head sharply in satisfaction, as, tucked 
in behind the barrels, he found what he had been look¬ 
ing for. Mr. Marlin had been digging. Exactly! 
Here was the spade. He lifted it up and examined it. 
Particles of fresh earth still clung to it. 

Captain Francis Newcombe stood still now for an 
instant to listen. And as he listened his brows gath¬ 
ered in a savage frown of annoyance. Why this ex¬ 
aggerated precaution? What did he expect to hear? 
What sound could there be? The old fool was finished 
for the night. There wasn’t the slightest chance that 
he would return. Why should he, Captain Francis 
Newcombe, waste time now, when with a moment’s 
work he could satisfy himself that the half-million dol¬ 
lars that had brought him to Manwa Island was defi¬ 
nitely within his reach? Was that it? Was it psy¬ 
chological? Was it that voice he was listening for 
again? 

He swore fiercely under his breath in a sudden flood 
of blind rage at himself; and, crossing the hut, stood 
the spade up against the wall within reach, and knelt 
down on the floor with the flashlight playing on the 
two or three sections of board that the old man had 
removed. Yes, they were quite loose. His fingers 
worked their way into a crack between two of them. 
The old maniac’s half-million! Hidden under the 
flooring! It was child’s— 

What was that? 

He was on his feet, the flashlight out, every muscle 
tense, his revolver outflung before him. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


172 

In God’s name, what was that? 

It seemed to crash and thunder through the stillness. 

Only a knock upon the door ? 

Again! 

Once more—sharp, imperative! 

He stood motionless—his jaws clamped like iron. 
What was he to do? If he answered the summons— 
what then? How explain the presence here of Captain 
Francis Newcombe, the guest, who at this hour should 
be peacefully asleep in his bed? Who was it out there 
who had knocked upon the door? Not the old fool 
himself who might have come back. Old Marlin 
wouldn’t have knocked. Who, then? 

Strange! A full minute must have passed. Why 
were the knocks not repeated? There was no sound 
from without. He had heard no one approach—he 
had heard no one go away. Only the knocks upon the 
door. 

He was listening now, every faculty alert. Was 
some one standing outside there, as tense, as silent, 
waiting—as he stood tense and silent, waiting, here 
within? If so, then, that was another angle to the 
situation. It must be so! There was not a sound out 
there—there had not been a sound. He had heard no 
one go away. Well, two could play at a game like 
that! And it would be the other who would show his 
hand! 

He moved softly toward the door. In the darkness 
he felt out with his hand. It touched the panel of the 
door, crept down until it clasped the knob—and then 
suddenly, even as he moved swiftly to one side out of 
the direct line, he flung the door wide back upon its 
hinges. 


173 


THE UNKNOWN 

And where the door had stood, there showed now 
but an oblong of filmy, hazy murk, scarcely more pene¬ 
trable to the eye than the black interior of the hut. 
Nothing more! No, that was not true. There was 
something else—something white, a small white flut¬ 
tering thing that seemed to drift and flutter downward 
to the ground. No sound from without—save the 
night sounds of the woods: The leaves talking to one 
another; the stir in the grasses; the low, faint, never- 
ending chatter of insects. 

The watch ticking on Captain Francis Newcombe’s 
wrist became a loud, discordant thing. It ticked away 
the minutes before he moved again. 

His eyes became accustomed to the murk outside the 
open door. There was no one there. 

That white thing lying by the threshold was an en¬ 
velope. It had been stuck in the door. He reached 
out now, and picked it up. And now he closed the door 
again, and, with the flashlight on, he tore the envelope 
open. 

He stared at the sheet of paper it contained. The 
single line of crude, printed letters seemed to leap out 
at him from the white sheet, scorching, burning, sear¬ 
ing its message into his consciousness. He raised his 
hand and drew it across his forehead. It came away 
wet with sweat. He looked around him, snarling like 
a beast at bay. A thousand minions of hell here in the 
hut were screeching in his ears the words he had just 
read: 


“Who murdered Sir Harris Greavesf 


—V— 


THE GUTTER-SNIPE 


CLOCK somewhere in the house chimed the 
hour. 



Midnight! 


Polly Wickes rose hastily from the corner of the 
big leather-upholstered Chesterfield in which her small 
figure had been tucked away. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so late. 


Every one else has been in bed ages ago.” 


“I think,” said Locke gravely, “that it is our duty 
to stand by that last log. It’s been a rather jolly fire, 
you know. I—” 

“That is the second one you have put on after hav¬ 


ing made the same remark twice before,” she accused 
him severely. 


“I know,” said Locke. “I’m guilty—but think of 


the extenuating circumstances.” 

Polly Wickes laughed. 

“No,” she said. 

“This is positively the last,” pleaded Locke. 
“There may not be any excuse for a grate fire to¬ 
morrow night. Have you thought of that? The wind 
is still howling, but the rain has stopped and the moon 
is coming out, and—” His tongue was running away 
with him inanely. He stopped short. 

“Yes?” inquired Polly Wickes demurely. 

The great dark eyes were laughing at him—teasing 
a little. 


174 


THE GUTTER-SNIPE 


i 75 

“Well, confound it,” he blurted out, “I don’t want 
you to go! This has been a day and an evening that I 
shall never forget—very wonderful ones for me. I 
don’t want them to be only memories—yet.” 

He met the dark eyes steadily now. The laughter 
had gone from them. He found them studying him 
for an instant in an almost startled way—and then the 
eyelids drooped and covered them, and she turned her 
head a little, facing the portiered window beside the 
fireplace of the living room in which they stood, and 
the colour crept softly upward from the full, bare 
throat, and stole into her cheeks. 

He caught his breath. He felt his pulse stir into a 
quicker beat. She was very lovely as she stood there 
with the soft, mellow glow of the rose-shaded lamp 
and with the flicker of the flames from the firelight 
playing upon her. 

“Just this last one,” he pleaded again. 

She hesitated for an instant, then sat down slowly 
on the Chesterfield once more. And as he watched 
her, there seemed to have come a curious quiet upon 
her. She did not look at him now—she was staring 
at her hands, which were tightly clasped together in 
her lap. 

“Very well,” she said in a low voice. “I think that 
I, too, would like to have—that last log. There is 
something that I want to say—that I meant to say this 
afternoon on the yacht. I—Mr. Locke, do you know 
who I am?” 

She would not look up. He could not see her face. 
He knew what she meant—Mr. Marlin’s words of the 
day before flashed upon him. There was something 
of dreariness in her voice, something that strove to be 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


176 

very bravely defiant but was only wistful, and an al¬ 
most uncontrollable impulse fell upon him to touch her 
face and lift it gently, and make her eyes meet his 
again. There would be an answer there—an answer 
that he had not yet dared put in words. What right 
had he to do so? A day of dreams on the yacht to¬ 
day—that, and yesterday. Two days! He had 
known her longer than that. . . . 

He found himself answering her question auto¬ 
matically. 

“What a strange question!” He was laughing— 
speaking lightly. “Of course, I know who you are.” 

“Yes,” she said gravely, “you know that my name is 
Polly Wickes—but do you know anything about me?” 

He came and stood a little closer to her. 

“I think I know you.” His voice had lost its lighter 
tone. 

A little flood of colour came as she shook her head. 

“Did guardy tell you anything about me on your 
trip down here?” 

“No,” he said. 

“I didn’t think he had,” she said. “He has always 
been opposed to either of us saying anything about it 
to any one. Dear guardy! I know it is for my sake 
and that he believes it makes it easier for me, and gen¬ 
erally it does; but—but sometimes it doesn’t.” She 
stopped and looked up suddenly. “But I do think it 
is more than likely that Mr. Marlin, in his queer way, 
has said something. Has he?” 

“Look here,” said Locke impulsively, “does it really 
matter—does it even matter at all? Mr. Marlin did 
say something, as a matter of fact—yesterday, down 
there at the boathouse, you know.” 



i n 


THE GUTTER-SNIPE 

“What did he say?” she demanded. 

“Why,” Locke smiled, “something about London, 
and selling flowers.” 

“Well, it is quite true,” she said slowly. “That is 
exactly what I was—a flower girl in London—on the 
street corners.” 

“I sell bonds—when I can—and wherever I can.” 
Locke was laughing again—he was not quite sure 
whether he was striving the more to put her or him¬ 
self at ease. “I can’t see any difference on the basis 
of pure commerce between the two—except perhaps 
that the flowers are the more honest offering of the 
two. Bonds sometimes are not always what they 
seem.” 

She shook her head. 

“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Locke,” she said. 
She was studying her clasped hands again. “But— 
but of course, as you quite well know, that has nothing 
whatever to do with what I am saying. You know 
London, don’t you?” 

“Why, yes; a bit,” he answered. 

“Yes,” she said. “I think you do. Indeed, from 
what you have said to-day, I am sure you know it 
better than any American I have ever met before; and, 
indeed, far better than most people who live there all 
their lives. And so—and so”—her voice broke a little, 
then steadied instantly—“it is not necessary to go into 
any details, for you will understand quite well when I 
say that I lived in Whitechapel, and even there where 
only the cheapest room was to be found, and that when 
I sold flowers I did not have any shoes—and to the 
police I was known as a gutter-snipe.” 

He was beside her, bending over her. 


178 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“My God, Miss Wickes—Polly,” he burst out, 
“why do you hurt yourself like this!” 

He had called her “Polly.” The name had come 
unbidden to his tongue. It had brought no rebuke—or 
was it that she had not noticed it? 

I would hurt myself more,” she said steadily, “if 
I felt that those around me could have any justification 
in believing that I was purposely masquerading in order 
to deceive. That would be hypocrisy—and I hate 
that! She flung out her hands suddenly with a queer, 
little helpless gesture. “Oh, I wonder if you under¬ 
stand w 7 hat I mean; I wonder if I am explaining myself 
—and if you won’t at once think that I am utterly 
inconsistent when I say that at school no one knew 
anything about my former life? But, you see, I have 
never felt that I was called upon to make the intimate 
things in my life a matter of public knowledge. And 
in that respect I can quite understand guardy’s atti¬ 
tude in wishing me to say nothing about it, for, in 
so many cases, and especially at school, it would have 
just supplied a fund for gossip, and—and that would 
have been abominable.” 

“Of course, it would!” There was savage assent in 
Locke s voice. It s nobody s business but your own.” 

“Oh, yes, it is,” she answered instantly. “It’s Miss 
IVIailin s business if I come here as a guest.” 

Yes, said Locke quickly; “but you have told her, 
and—” 

“Wait!” she interrupted. “Yes, I have told her; 
and now I have told you. But your two cases are en¬ 
tirely different, and I am not altogether sure that my 
reason for telling you is entirely to my credit, because 
it it is perhaps like the child who confesses when he 


THE GUTTER-SNIPE 


179 

knows he is sure to be found out. You couldn’t be 
here with poor Mr. Marlin very long before you knew. 
Do you understand? I couldn’t bear the thought of 
you, or any one, thinking I was deliberately trying to 
hide the truth, or that, when there was reason to do so, 
I was afraid or ashamed to speak out myself.” 

“I wish you hadn’t added that ‘any one,’ ” he said 
in a low voice. 

She did not answer. She was staring now into the 
fire. And he too stared into it now. It was full of 
pictures—strange, drab pictures. He knew White¬ 
chapel—its stark, hopeless realism; he knew its chil¬ 
dren—without shoes. Was that what she saw there 
now? The fire was dying—beneath the one remaining 
log, almost burned through now, there were only em¬ 
bers. They glowed here and there and went out—- 
black. Like some memories ! 

He looked at her again. Her face, that he could see 
now, seemed strangely pinched and drawn. Her hand 
toyed nervously with a frill of her dress. And some¬ 
thing seemed suddenly to choke in his throat, and a 
great yearning came—and it would not be denied. 

“Polly!” he whispered, and, leaning over, caught 
her hand in his. 

With a quick, sharp indrawing of her breath as of 
one in sudden pain, she rose to her feet and drew her 
hand away. 

“Oh, why did you do that?” she cried out. 

“Because,” he said, “I love—” 

“No, no!” she cried out again. “Don’t answer me! 
I didn’t mean that you should answer. It is only that 
now there is something else that I must say. I—I—” 
Her voice broke suddenly. 


i8o THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“Don’t!” he said huskily. “Polly, there is nothing 
to take to heart. What could it ever matter, those 
days? They are gone now forever. You exaggerate 
any possible bearing they could have on to-day. Sup¬ 
pose you were a flower girl, that you have known pov¬ 
erty in its bitterest sense—would that matter, could 
it possibly matter to any one who was not a contempti¬ 
ble snob, or to—” 

“There is something else now that I must say.” She 
was repeating her own words, almost as though she 
were unconscious of any interruption. “You—you 
make me say it. I—I never knew who my father was.” 

* She was gone. 

He had had a glimpse of a face pitifully white, of 
dark eyes that fought bravely against a mist that 
sought to blind them; and then before he could move 
or speak she had run from the room—and he stood 
alone before the fireplace. 

And in the fireplace the last log fell spluttering, 
throwing out its dying rain of little sparks, and lay a 
broken thing between the dogs. 


—VI— 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 

A GAIN a clock somewhere in the house chimed 
the hour. And again. 

One o’clock. 

Two o’clock. 

The embers in the fireplace had long since turned to 
black charred things. Locke raised his head. Two 
o’clock! He had not been conscious of it when the 
last little glow had died away. He had turned out the 
light when Polly had gone—and had sat there staring 
at the dying fire. He had not put on another log. 
The fire was dead now—quite dead. He had been 
staring into a black fireplace—that was as black as the 
room itself. 

Two o’clock! 

He stood up, and, going to the windows, flung back 
the portieres. It was still blowing hard; but the moon 
was beginning to show through the scudding clouds. 
He brushed his hand heavily across his eyes. It was 
very still in the house; but the stillness itself seemed 
a disquiet, untranquil, chaotic thing. Polly! Yes, 
Polly had filled his thoughts during those two hours— 
Polly, and Captain Francis Newcombe. But he had 
not forgotten withal the bizarre appointment he was 
to keep with Mr. Marlin in the aquarium—at a quar¬ 
ter past two. One would not be likely to forget so 
extraordinary a thing in any case, no matter what might 

meanwhile have intervened—even if Mr. Marlin had 

181 


i82 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


not been so grotesquely persistent in his reminders. 
A dozen times that day the old man had plucked sig¬ 
nificantly at his, Locke’s, coat sleeve, or had signalled 
mysteriously with his finger to his lips; and twice, with 
a childish titter, the old man had come upon him un¬ 
expectedly and had said exactly the same thing on each 
occasion. 

“Tee-hee, tee-hee!” the old man had tittered. “It is 
all right for to-night, my boy—you will see—you will 
see. And they thought I was a fool. Do not say a 
word. Keep quiet—keep quiet—you will see.” 

What would he see? What would he learn? Much 
—or little? Would it be only the babble of a sick 
brain? Queer, strange, almost impossible conditions 
in this house! Where would they climax—and how? 
Whose hand held the trumps? 

His eyes fixed suddenly on a spot across the lawn. 
Something seemed to have moved there. Fancy, per¬ 
haps; or a shadow cast by the swaying branches. The 
moon was just coming out from under the edge of a 
cloud—another moment and he would be able to tell 
if anything were there. Yes! A woman emerging 
from the path that led to the shore. The figure began 
to cross the lawn, approaching the house. 

And then Locke’s eyes narrowed suddenly in aston¬ 
ishment. It w r asn’t a woman at all; it was a man 
wearing a long gown, a dressing gown. It was Mr. 
Marlin. And the man kept cocking his head from 
side to side; and he appeared to be carrying something 
under the dressing gown—at least his arm was crooked 
up as though he held a bundle there. 

Locke smiled now a little grimly, as the old man 
finally disappeared around the corner of the house. It 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 183 

was almost a quarter past two. He would find Mr. 
Marlin in the aquarium. 

He drew the portieres together again, and, leaving 
the room, went out into the reception hall beyond. 
There was no light showing anywhere and he was 
obliged to feel his way along. The aquarium was in, 
or, rather, composed in itself, a little wing built at the 
rear of the house, but connected therewith by a short, 
covered passageway. He knew the way quite well— 
he had been there with Polly on that first day. 

That first day! That was only yesterday ... it 
was incredible, impossible. . . . His mind was run¬ 
ning riot as he groped his way to the rear of the main 
staircase and into the wide passage that ran parallel 
with the length of the house. But then the whole place 
was incredible! The house itself was like a great 
hotel with its corridors and its endless number of 
rooms! This was Mr. Marlin’s room here at his 
right, and— 

He stood still. A door on his left had opened. It 
shut again instantly—and then he could hear it being 
cautiously reopened a little way. 

“Don’t you move!” said a voice in a fierce whisper. 
“Don’t you move! I can see you! If you move I will 
shoot you!” 

Locke found his muscles, that had suddenly grown 
tense and strained, as suddenly relaxed. He could see 
nothing—the door wasn’t wide enough open—but it 
was the old madman’s voice. Strange, though! How 
had the man got there? That wasn’t Mr. Marlin’s 
room—Mr. Marlin’s room was on the opposite side of 
the hall. Yes, of course, there must be an entrance 
into the house there of some sort. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


184 

“It’s Locke,” he announced quietly. “That’s you, 
Mr. Marlin, isn’t it?” 

“Hah!” ejaculated the other. “You, my boy, eh? 
Well, that’s quite different. Of course, it’s you. You 
know the value of being prompt. Excellent! Excel¬ 
lent! Be very quiet—but hurry! Follow me. We 
have only a little time.” 

Locke could just make out the old man’s form now 
as the other came through the door—and then in the 
darkness it was lost again. But the patter of foot¬ 
steps ahead of him, hurrying along, served as a guide. 
He followed the other to the end of the hall, turned 
into the covered passageway, and was halted again 
by the old man, this time at the door of the 
aquarium. 

“Tee-hee!” tittered the maniac. “They think they 
are dealing with a fool. Wait! Wait, young man, I 
will see that the window shades are all down before we 
turn on the light—though there will be no one here to¬ 
night except ourselves—tee-hee !—they will be some¬ 
where else!” 

The old man opened the door and disappeared. 
And now Locke, as he waited, and though he listened, 
could not hear the other moving around inside—what 
sound the old man made was drowned by the noise of 
running water through the pipes that fed the tanks, 
and, added to this, the low, constant drip and trickle 
that pervaded the place. 

Presently the lights went on. 

“Here!” cried the old man. “Come over here!” 

Locke blinked a little in the light as he stepped for¬ 
ward. It reflected bewilderingly from the glass faces 
of the tanks that were everywhere about. He joined 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 185 

the old man in the centre of the aquarium. Here there 
was an open space from which the tanks radiated off 
much after the manner of the spokes of a wheel, and 
this space was utilised as a sort of luxurious observa¬ 
tion point, so to speak, for a heavy oriental rug was 
on the tiled floor, and ranged around a table were a 
number of big easy chairs. 

From under his dressing gown now the old man took 
a package that was wrapped in oiled silk, and laid it on 
the table. 

“Money!” he cried out abruptly. “Hah! We know 
its power, young man, you and I!” He began to fum¬ 
ble with the cord that was tied around the package; 
and then suddenly commenced to titter again. “Did 
I not tell you I was being followed, always being fol¬ 
lowed? Well, last night they followed a wrong scent. 
Tee-hee ! Tee-hee ! I told you you would see who was 
the fool! They are there to-night—digging—digging 
—digging. Tee-hee! Tee-hee! They will dig the 
place all up before they are sure it is not there.” 

Money! That package! Locke’s lips tightened a 
little. Was this, as he had more than half expected, 
what he was to “see”—the half-million dollars at last 
that Polly had seen? And what did the man mean by 
“wrong scent” ? And “digging” ? 

“Yes, of course, Mr. Marlin,” said Locke quietly. 
“Of course, they will! But who is it that is following 
you?” 

The old man dropped the package from his hands 
and leaned across the table, his eyes suddenly ablaze. 

“If I knew, I would kill them!” he whispered. “It 
is everybody—everybody!” 

“Perhaps you are mistaken.” Locke spoke in a 


186 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


soothing tone. “Did you see anybody following you 
last night?” 

“It is not necessary to see”—the old. madman’s 
whisper had become suddenly confidential—“I know. 
They were there—they are always there—watching— 
eyes are always watching.” He broke into his insane 
titter once more. “Tee-hee, yes, yes; and we are being 
watched by thousands of eyes to-night—look at them 
—look at them—the pretty things—see them swim¬ 
ming all around you—but they look and they say 
nothing—and they do not follow me.” His voice was 
rising shrilly; he began to gesticulate with his hands, 
pointing with darting little motions at one tank after 
another. “Do you hear? You need not be afraid 
because they watch. They will not follow us.” 

Locke sat down leisurely in a chair facing the other 
across the table. He was rather curious about this 
mysterious digging of last night, a little more than 
curious—but, also, it was necessary to calm the old 
maniac’s growing excitement. 

“I am quite sure of that, Mr. Marlin,” he agreed 
heartily. “We should be perfectly safe here, especially 
as you say that you have succeeded in making whoever 
was following you watch somewhere else. That was 
very clever of you, Mr. Marlin.” 

The old man put his finger to his lips. 

“I’ll tell you where it was, young man,” he said. 
“The old hut in the woods behind the house. They 
think it’s there. They think that’s where I hide the 
money. And they’ll keep on looking there. It will 
take them a long while. They will be looking there 
to-night—and perhaps to-morrow night, too. And 
then they will begin to follow me again. But it will 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 


187 

be too late—too late for many, many days, because the 
time-lock will be set—ha, ha—God supplies the time- 
lock, young man—you do not understand that—but can 
you imagine any one opening a time-lock that God has 
made?” 

Locke took refuge in a cigarette. Apart from some 
mare’s nest in an old hut, it was quite hopeless! The 
old maniac’s condition was growing steadily worse. 
There was a marked change in even the last twenty- 
four hours. It did not require any professional eye 
to discern that. 

“I think,” suggested Locke conversationally, “that 
you were going to show me something in that package, 
Mr. Marlin.” 

“Yes,” said the old madman instantly, and as though 
quite oblivious of any digression. “That is why you 
are here. Listen! You will tell your father about it. 
I do not ask others to do what I do not do myself. 
Your father must do the same. He must get all the 
great capitalists of America to do likewise—it is the 
only thing that will save the country from ruin and dis¬ 
aster. Look!” The old man ripped off the cord and 
wrapper, and there tumbled out upon the table, each 
held together with two or three elastic bands, a half 
dozen or more small bundles of bank notes. “See! 
See! Do you see, young man?” 

Locke with difficulty maintained an impassive coun¬ 
tenance. He had expected something of the sort, but 
it seemed somehow incredible that a sum so great as 
Polly had named should be represented by those few 
little bundles scattered there on the table in front of 
him. He picked one of them up and riffled the notes 
through his fingers. It contained perhaps a hundred 


188 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

bills, each one of the denomination of a thousand dol¬ 
lars—one hundred thousand dollars. He laid the bun¬ 
dle back on the table. Others were of like denomina¬ 
tion; others again of five hundred. The full amount 
was undoubtedly there. 

“Do you know how much is there?” demanded the 
old madman sharply. 

Locke regarded the money thoughtfully. To name 
the exact amount offhand might aggravate the old 
maniac’s already suspicious frame of mind. 

“I can see that there is a very large sum,” he an¬ 
swered cautiously. 

“A large sum!” echoed the madman aggressively. 
“And what do you call a large sum, young man?” 

“Well, at a guess,” said Locke quietly, “and basing 
it on that package I have just examined, I should say 
in the neighbourhood of half a million dollars.” 

The old maniac thrust his head forward across the 
table, stared for an instant, and then suddenly burst 
into a peal of wild, ironical laughter. 

“Half a million!” He rocked upon his feet, his 
peals of laughter punctuating his words. “Bah! 
There are five millions, ten millions, fifty millions 
there!” He shook his finger under Locke’s nose. 
“Do you hear what I say, young man?” 

The blue eyes had become alight with a mad blaze; 
hectic spots began to burn in the old madman’s cheeks. 
Locke nodded his head in a slow, deliberate manner— 
as the most effective thing he could think of to do by 
way of calming the other. The whole place, the sur¬ 
roundings, the grotesque shapes swimming around in 
the tanks everywhere he looked, the eyes of the queer 
sea creatures that all seemed to be fascinated by that 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 189 

fortune which lay upon the table, the constant drip 
and trickle of water, the crazed old man who rocked 
upon his feet and laughed, were eerily unreal. That 
sea-horse in the tank that faced him from just beyond 
the other side of the table, for instance, seemed to be 
a most bizarre and unnatural creature both in shape 
and actions even for one of his own species! Half¬ 
past two in the morning, in an aquarium with a mad¬ 
man and a half-million dollars! Again, by way of 
appeasing the other, he nodded his head. 

“Listen!” cried the old maniac fiercely. “You must 
help me. Men are blind, blind, blind! Europe is 
crumbling, nations are bankrupt—chaos—chaos— 
chaos is everywhere. Everything else is decreasing in 
value; only the American dollar climbs up and up and 
up. Sell, sell, sell while there is time! Commercial 
houses are tottering, dividends are not being paid, the 
employment of labour becomes less and less—the end 
is near. And fools cling to their business enterprises; 
and their capital shrinks and is swallowed up and 
lost. Lost!” The man was working himself into a 
frenzy. His voice rose in a shriek. “Lost! Do you 
not see? Do you not understand? Money alone has 
any value. And the less money there is left in the 
world, and the more that is lost, the greater will be 
the value of what remains. It will multiply itself by 
the thousandfold. Look! Look what is on the table 
here! It will become a wealth beyond counting in any 
case, and if no one will believe me then the more it 
will be worth because there will be the less money to 
compete against it. Millions! Millions! Hundreds 
of millions! But I am not selfish. I do not wish to 
see the ruin of the world. And you— you! You will 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


190 

now be responsible. They will not listen to me because 
they say I am mad—I, who alone have the vision to 
see, and the courage to act. But your father will listen 
to you and he will believe you, and the great financiers 
of America will follow your father, and—” 

Subconsciously Locke was aware that the old maniac 
was still talking, the crazed words rising in shrieks of 
passionate intensity—but he was no longer paying any 
attention to the other. He was staring again at the 
glass tank, behind and a little to one side of the old 
madman, that contained the sea-horse. The creature 
was most strange! It was only a small and diminutive 
thing, but, unless he were the victim of an hallucina¬ 
tion, it had taken on an extraordinary appearance. It 
seemed to possess human eyes; to assume almost the 
shape of a face—only there was a shadow across it. 
The water rippled a little. The sea-horse moved to 
the opposite corner of the tank—but the eyes remained 
in exactly the same original spot. 

Locke leaned nonchalantly back in his chair, though 
his lips were compressed now into a thin, grim line. 
They were human eyes, and the shadow across the face 
was a mask. Where did it come from? He began 
trying to figure out the angle of reflection. The face 
of each glass tank, of course, with the deeper-hued 
water behind it, was nothing more or less than a re¬ 
flecting mirror. What was that dark straight line 
above the eyes? To begin with, the reflection must 
come from somewhere behind him, and well to one side 
of him. Taking into consideration the position in 
which Mr. Marlin stood, it must be the left-hand side. 
The tanks, then, that would seem to answer that re¬ 
quirement became instantly limited in number—it must 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 


191 

be either the first or second tank of those that formed 
the left-hand side of the alleyway nearest to where he 
sat, and that, like the spoke of the wheel, led obliquely 
to the wall. He could not see the wall, but— Yes, he 
had it now*. There was a window there. That dark 
line above the eyes was the window shade—raised six 
inches or so from the sill. It could easily have been 
accomplished—even if the old madman had carefully 
drawn every shade and shut every window in the place, 
as presumably he had. The drip and trickle, the run¬ 
ning water, would have deadened any little sound made 
in forcing the window, and after that to reach in and 
manipulate the shade would have been but child’s play. 

Locke’s eyes shifted now to the old madman. What 
was to be done? The other, still rocking and swaying 
upon his feet, still flinging his arms about in mad ges¬ 
tures, his facial muscles twitching violently as he 
shrieked out his words, was already verging on a state 
of acute hysteria. Even to hint at the possibility that 
they were being watched would not only have a proba¬ 
bly very dangerous effect upon the maniac, but would 
in itself defeat any chance of turning the tables on that 
watcher outside the window! Whose eyes were those, 
whose face was that behind the mask? Intuitively he 
felt he knew 7 —the trail went back, broad and well de¬ 
fined, to London. Newcombe! Captain Francis New T - 
combe! Who else could it be? His jaws clamped 
hard together now. How turn intuition into a prac¬ 
tical, visible certainty—by stripping that mask from 
the other’s face? • 

The eyes were still there in the tank. 

His mind was working keenly, swiftly now. Suppose 
he made some excuse to leave the aquarium and stole 


192 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


around outside to that window? No; that would not 
do. In the first place, he probably could not get away 
from the old madman; and, if he could, he dared not, 
for the length of time it would take him to accom¬ 
plish any such purpose, leave the other alone with that 
money on the table and subject to attack from an open 
window only a few feet away. There was only one 
thing to do. The man outside the window there, un¬ 
aware that his presence was known, would naturally not 
consider that he, Locke, was a factor to be reckoned 
with when, say, the old madman left the aquarium here 
to return the money to its hiding place, wherever that 
might be; and therefore, if he, Locke, could manage to 
keep ward over Mr. Marlin without being seen him¬ 
self, the man out there would almost certainly rise to 
the bait and bring about his own downfall. The money 
was in evidence for the first time; its whereabouts 
known—and the man in the mask would be illogical 
indeed if he allowed it to be restored to the security 
of a secret hiding place without making an attempt to 
get it when an opportunity such as this apparently pre¬ 
sented itself. But against this was a certain risk to 
which the old man would be subjected; if not a physical 
risk, then a mental one—which latter, to one in Mr. 
Marlin’s condition, would probably be the more dan¬ 
gerous of the two. And then there was the chance, too, 
that if luck turned an ugly trick the money itself might 
be in jeopardy. The old maniac’s unconscious co- 
pperation must be secured. The hiding place was 
somewhere outside the house. That was obvious, 
both from Mr. Marlin’s nocturnal habits, and from the 
even more significant fact that the old madman, in com- 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 193 

ing to this appointment here to-night, had brought the 
money with him from somewhere outdoors. Also it 
seemed to be no secret that Mr. Marlin roamed abroad 
at night. Polly had spoken of it without reserve. It 
was therefore but fair to presume that one as inter¬ 
ested as was the man outside the window, and par¬ 
ticularly if it were Newcombe, was in possession of this 
knowledge, and being in possession of it was equally 
capable of putting two and two together, and would 
expect the old maniac to go out again to-night—with 
the money. If then, without unduly alarming him, Mr. 
Marlin could be persuaded to remain in the house with 
his money to-night, it would not only be the safest 
thing the old madman could do, but would afford him, 
Locke, if he were right in his supposition, an excellent 
chance to trap the man in the mask while the latter 
waited for his prey to come out. 

Locke, leaning forward now, crossed his arms on 
the table, and nodded his head earnestly at the old 
maniac. One corner of the table at least was distinctly 
visible from where the window would be along that 
little alleyway between the rows of tanks, but he was 
careful not to glance in that direction. The reflection 
of the masked face still showed in the same place. 
What was the old madman saying? Well, it didn’t 
matter, did it? He interrupted the other now. 

“You are right, Mr. Marlin,” he said gravely. “I 
agree with everything you have said. It is a most 
serious situation. I had no idea that there existed any 
such vital and immediate necessity of realising cash 
for every description of asset that we can lay our hands 
upon. And I had no idea of the immense potential 


194 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


value that this money here on the table, for instance, 
possesses. As you say, when the crash comes it will 
be worth untold millions—a fabulous amount.” 

“Yes, yes!” agreed the old man excitedly. He be¬ 
gan to pat and fondle the bundles of bank notes. 
“Millions! Millions! Hundreds of millions !” 

“The amount is so vast,” said Locke, still earnestly, 
“that I cannot help thinking about what you said in 
reference to being followed out there in the woods 
last night. I don’t think you should risk any chance 
of being followed to-night when you have all this great 
wealth with you, even though you are quite sure you 
have put whoever it may be off the scent, and that he, 
or they, will be busy somewhere else. I don’t think, if 
I were you, I would go out of the house again to¬ 
night.” 

The old madman straightened up, and for a moment 
stared at Locke; and as he stared the red spots began 
to overspread his cheeks, and the pupils of the blue 
eyes seemed to enlarge and darken. And then with a 
sudden sweep of his arms he gathered the bundles of 
bank notes together, wrapped them up frantically in 
the oiled-silk covering, and thrust the package under his 
dressing gown. 

“Hah!” His voice rose in a wild and savage 
scream. “You think I should stay in the house, do 
you? Hah! I see! I see! That is what you want 
me to do, is it? You want to trick me! You are one 
of them—one of them—one of them! You could 
never find the money where I hide it! You could never 
open God’s time-lock! So you want me to keep it in 
the house to-night where you can get it! And you 
think that I am a madman and cannot see what you 


THE MAN IN THE MASK 


i95 

are after! You are one of them—one of them 
that follows—follows everywhere—and watches—and 
watches!” 

He burst into a wild peal of laughter—another and 
another. He clutched fiercely at the package under his 
dressing gown. His face was distorted. His free 
hand pounded the table; saliva showed at the corners 
of his lips. 

“For God’s sake, Mr. Marlin,” cried Locke, “lis¬ 
ten—” 

“One of them! One of them!” screamed the old 
man—and, turning suddenly, dashed for the door. 

Locke’s chair overturned with a crash as he sprang 
to his feet, and, darting around the table, started to 
follow—but the old maniac by now was already at the 
door. He saw the other’s hand snatch at the electric- 
light switch. The aquarium was in sudden darkness. 
He heard the door slam. He groped his way to it, and 
wrenched at it. 

The old madman had locked it on the outside. 


VII— 


THE FIGHT 

F OR a moment, grim-lipped, Locke stood there 
at the door. He had accomplished exactly the 
opposite to what he had intended—the old man, 
the money, were both in infinitely greater peril now 
than under almost any other circumstances of which 
he could conceive. He did not blame himself—the 
vagaries, the impulses, the irrational promptings of 
an insane mind were beyond his control or guidance. 
It was the last thing he had expected the old maniac 
to do. But it was done now; it was too late to con¬ 
sider that phase of it. There was work for his own 
brain to do—he hoped more logically. 

He turned sharply now, and began to make his 
way as best he could in the darkness toward the 
window at the end of that aisle of tanks outside of 
which he knew the masked man had stood. He dared 
not show any light here, though by so doing he would 
have been able to move more swiftly. The man who 
had been at the window was almost certainly gone 
now—to watch for the old maniac’s appearance out¬ 
side the house. And Mr. Marlin would assuredly, 
and as quickly as he could, scurry outside to hide his 
money away again. And even if the man in the mask 
had had no previous knowledge of the old madman’s 
strange nightly movements, which would be a very 
unsafe assumption on which to depend, he would have 

heard enough at the window, if not to know, then, 

196 


THE FIGHT 


197 

at least, to expect that the old maniac’s one thought 
now would be to secrete his money, and that the hiding 
place, this time-lock that God had made, as the old 
man had called it, was somewhere outside the house. 
But the watcher’s new lurking place might still em¬ 
brace a view of the window, and if he, Locke, climbed 
out with the light behind him— 

He was at the window now. He smiled grimly. 
He was pitted against no fool—but then he never 
had been fool enough himself ever to place Captain 
Francis Newcombe in that category! The man in 
the mask had left no tell-tale evidence of his presence 
behind him. The shade was drawn down; the window 
closed. 

Locke lifted the shade now, raised the window 
quietly, and stood for an instant listening, staring out. 
He could see little or nothing, other than the swaying 
branches of trees against the sky line; and there was 
no sound save the sweep of the wind which was still 
blowing half a gale. And now he swung himself over 
the window sill, dropped the few feet to the ground 
—and crouched against the wall, listening, staring 
again into the blackness. 

Nothing! The moon, burrowing deeper under the 
clouds, made it even blacker than it had been a mo¬ 
ment ago. He straightened up and began to run 
toward the front of the house. It was perhaps a 
case of blindman’s-buff, but there was not an instant 
to lose, and, deprived of any aid from the sense 
of either sight or hearing, he was left with only one 
thing to do. From the living room window a little 
while ago, he had seen Mr. Marlin coming toward 
the house from across the lawn, after having pre- 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


198 

sumably just unearthed his money from its hiding 
place; the chances were that it was by the same route 
the old maniac would return now. 

Locke ran on, stumbling, half groping his way 
through what seemed a veritable maze of out-build- 
ings here at the rear of the house. The minutes 
seemed to be flying—wasted. The old maniac, if he 
had left the house the moment he had run from the 
aquarium, must by now have had a good three min¬ 
utes’ start; and if the man in the mask had at once 
picked up the trail, then— 

No; he was not too late! He had reached the 
front corner of the house now, and across the lawn, 
where in the open space it was a little lighter, some¬ 
thing, a blacker thing than the darkness, moving 
swiftly, caught his eye. It was the figure of a man 
running toward the trees in the direction of the path 
that led to the shore, and from which old Mr. Marlin 
had emerged earlier in the evening. And now the 
figure was gone—lost in the trees. 

But he, Locke, too, was running now, sprinting for 
all he knew across the lawn. It was perhaps sixty 
yards. There was no time to use caution and circuit 
warily around the edge of the woods. He might be 
seen—but he had to take that chance. He would not 
be heard—the soft grass and the whine of the wind 
guaranteed him against that. It was a little better 
than an even break. The figure he had seen was not, 
he was sure, that of the old maniac. The long, flap¬ 
ping dressing gown would, even in a shadowy way, 
have been distinguishable. If he were right, then, in 
his supposition, the figure he had seen was the man 
in the mask, and old Mr. Marlin was already in there 


THE FIGHT 


199 

on the path leading through the woods to the shore. 

A cry, sudden, like a scream that was strangled, 
came with the gusting wind. It came again. From 
the edge of the lawn now, Locke leaped forward along 
the path. Black, twisting shapes loomed up just ahead 
of him. He flung himself upon them. 

A low, startled, vicious snarl answered his attack. 
After that there was no sound while perhaps a minute 
passed, save the rustle of leaves and foliage, the snip 
of broken twigs under swiftly moving, straining feet. 
Locke was fighting now with merciless, exultant feroc¬ 
ity. It was the man in the mask he was at grips with 
—it was not the dressing gown alone, the feel of it, 
that distinguished one from the other; he had even 
in that first plunging rush in the darkness felt his 
hand brush against the mask on the man’s cheek. 

It was all shadow, all blackness. To this side and 
that, close locked together, he and his antagonist now 
swayed madly. The man’s one evident desire was 
to break away from his, Locke’s, encircling arms; his, 
Locke’s, purpose not only to prevent escape, but to 
unmask the other—the moon might come out again at 
any instant—filter through the branches—just enough 
light to see the other’s face if the mask were off. 

A peal of laughter rang out. It was the old mad¬ 
man. Locke, as he fought, more sensed than saw the 
old man’s form close to the ground, as though the 
other were groping around on his hands and knees. 
The peal of laughter came again; and then the old 
maniac’s voice in a triumphant scream: 

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! Money! Money! 
Money! Millions! Millions! Millions! It’s all 
here! I’ve got it! It’s all—” 


200 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


The voice was dying away in the distance. Locke 
laughed a little with grim, panting breath. Whether 
it had been dropped or had been snatched from him 
in the first attack, old Marlin had now obviously re¬ 
covered his package of bank notes. He was gone now 
—running to hide it again, of course. In any event, 
the old maniac and his money were safe, and— 

His antagonist had wrenched free an arm. Locke’s 
head jolted back suddenly from a wicked short-arm 
blow that caught the point of his chin. A sensation 
of numbness seemed to be trying insidiously to creep 
upward to his brain—but it did not reach that far— 
not quite that far—only it loosened his grip for an 
instant and the shadowy form that he had held ap¬ 
peared to be floating away from him. And then, as 
his brain cleared, he shot his body forward in a low, 
lunging tackle. The other almost eluded him, but 
his hands caught and clung to the man’s arm—both 
around one of the other’s arms. The man wrenched 
and squirmed in a savage frenzy to tear himself free. 
There was a sound of the ripping and rending of 
cloth—something showed white in the darkness—the 
other’s sleeve had torn away at the armpit. 

A white shirt sleeve! It was a beacon in the black¬ 
ness. The man would not get away now. There was 
something more tangible than a shadow—something 
to see. In a flash Locke shifted his hold, and his 
arms swept around the other, pinioning the man’s 
hands to his sides—tighter—tighter. Neither spoke. 
The only sounds were hoarse, rasping gasps for 
breath. Tighter! He was bending the man backward 
now—slowly—surely—a little more. No—the man 
was too strong—the pinioned arms were free again, 


THE FIGHT 


201 


and Locke felt them grip together like a vise around 
the small of his own back. 

They lurched now, swaying from side to side like 
drunken men. The mask! To get at the mask! 
They were locked together, the chin of one on the 
other’s shoulder—straining until the muscles cracked. 
Locke began to raise his head a little. The hot breath 
of the other was on his cheek now—and now his cheek 
rubbed against the other’s mask. 

An oath broke suddenly from the man—quick, mut¬ 
tered, the voice unrecognisable in its laboured breath¬ 
ing; and the other, seeming to sense his, Locke’s, in¬ 
tention, suddenly relinquished his grip, snatched for a 
throat-hold instead, and, missing, began then to tear 
at Locke’s arms in an effort to break away. 

And then Locke laughed again grimly. It would 
avail nothing to snatch at the mask and get it off 
in the darkness here, if by so doing, with his own 
hold on the other gone, the man should get away. 
There was another way to get the mask off—and still 
maintain his grip upon the other! 

They were holding now, seemingly as motionless 
as statues, the strength of one matched against the 
other in a supreme effort. The sweat broke out in 
great beads on Locke’s forehead; his arms seemed to 
be tearing away from their sockets. He could feel 
the muscles in the other’s neck, as it hugged against his 
own, swell and stand out like great steel ridges. And 
then slowly, inch by inch, he forced his own head around 
until his face was against the other’s cheek. He could 
just feel the mask now with his lips—another inch— 
yes, now he had it—his teeth closed on the lower edge 
of the mask, chewed at it until he had a still firmer grip 


202 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


—and then he suddenly wrenched his head backward. 

The mask came away in Locke’s teeth. He spat 
it out. The other was a man gone mad with fury 
now; and with a new strength that fury brought he 
strove only to strike and strike again—but Locke only 
closed his hold the tighter. To strike back was to 
take the chance of the other breaking loose. It was 
too dark to see the man’s face, though the mask was 
off now—but it could only be a few yards along the 
path to the open space of the lawn out there—and 
the moon would not always be fickle—it would break 
through the clouds, and— 

They were rocking, lurching, twisting, swaying in 
their mad struggle—and now they circled more widely 
—and branches snatched and tore at them, and broke 
and fell from the trees at the sides of the path. And 
here Locke gave a step, and there another, working 
nearer and nearer to the edge of the lawn. 

And then suddenly there came a half-choked cry 
from the other. The man had tripped in the under¬ 
growth. Locke swung his weight to complete the 
fall—tripped himself—and both, with their balance 
gone, but grappling the fiercer at each other, pitched 
headlong with terrific force into the trees at the side 
of the path. 

And Locke was for an instant conscious of a great 
blow, of streaks of fiery light that smote at his eye¬ 
balls with excruciating pain—and then utter blackness 
came. 

When he opened his eyes again a moonbeam lay 
along the path, and a figure in a long dressing gown 
was passing by. He was dreaming, wasn’t he? There 
was a sick sensation in his head, a giddiness—and be- 


THE FIGHT 


203 

sides that it gave him great pain. He raised himself 
up cautiously on his elbow, fighting to clear his mind 
—and suddenly his lips tightened grimly. There was 
something ironical in that moonbeam—something that 
mocked him in disclosing a figure in a dressing gown 
instead of a face that had been unmasked yet still 
could not be seen. He looked around him now. He 
was lying a few feet in from the edge of the path, 
and against the trunk of a large tree. Yes, he re¬ 
membered now. His head had struck against the tree 
and he had been knocked unconscious. And the man 
who had been masked was gone. 

He rose to his feet. He was very groggy—and 
for a moment he leaned against the tree trunk for 
support. The giddiness began to pass away. That 
was old Mr. Marlin who had just gone by. Well, 
neither the old madman nor his money had come to 
any harm, anyway! He stepped out on the path, and 
from there to the edge of the lawn. The old madman 
was just disappearing around the corner of the 
verandah. 

Locke put his hands to his eyes. How his head 
throbbed! How long had he lain there unconscious? 
He took out his watch. His eyes seemed blurred— 
or was it the meagreness of the moonlight? He was 
not quite sure, but it seemed to be ten minutes after 
three. It wasn’t very easy to figure backward. He 
did not know how long he and the old maniac had 
been together in the aquarium, but, say, half an hour. 
Starting then at the hour of the rendezvous, which 
had been at a quarter past two, that would bring it 
to a quarter of three; then, say, ten minutes for what 
had happened afterward, including the fight, and that 


204 the four stragglers 

would make it five minutes of three. He must there¬ 
fore have been lying in there unconscious for at least 
fifteen minutes. 

The man who had worn the mask was gone now— 
naturally. But perhaps it would not be so difficult 
to pick up the trail. Captain Francis Newcombe’s 
room offered very promising possibilities—and there 
was a torn coat sleeve that would not readily be re¬ 
placed in fifteen minutes! 

He made his way now across the lawn, and up the 
steps to the verandah. He tried the front door. It 
was locked. Of course! He had forgotten that he 
had left the house by crawling out of the aquarium 
window. There was no use going back that way be¬ 
cause the old madman had locked the aquarium door. 
Mr. Marlin, though, had some means of entrance— 
and if that door through which the man had so sud¬ 
denly appeared in the back hall meant anything, the 
entrance the old man used was likely to be somewhere 
in the rear. But Mr. Marlin would probably have 
locked that, too, Behind him. 

He looked up and down the now moon-flecked 
verandah—and began to try the French windows that 
opened upon it from the front rooms of the house. 
The first two were locked as he had expected. It 
was only a chance, but he might as well begin here 
as anywhere else. He tried the third one almost 
perfunctorily. It opened at a touch. 

“I’m in luck!” Locke muttered, and stepped inside. 

He turned the knob to lock the French window be¬ 
hind him, and found the bolt already thrown. Queer! 
He stood frowning for an instant, then stooped and 
felt along the inside edge of the threshold. The 


THE FIGHT 


205 

socket that ordinarily housed the bolt-bar was gone. 
The same condition therefore obviously existed at the 
top, as the long bar had a double throw. 

Fie straightened up, a curious smile twitching at his 
lips now, and, making his way silently to the stairs, 
he reached the upper hall, stole along it to the door 
of his own room, and entered. Here, from one of 
his bags, he procured a revolver; and a moment later, 
his ear to the panel, listening, he stood outside Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe’s door. 

There was no sound from within. Softly he began 
to turn the door handle—the door would hardly be 
locked; that would be a misplay; one didn’t lock one’s 
bedroom door when a guest in a private house. No; 
it was not locked. He had the door ajar now. Again 
he listened. There was still no sound from within. 
Was the man back yet, or not? The absence of any 
sound meant nothing, save that Newcombe was prob¬ 
ably not in the sitting room of his suite—he might 
easily, however, be in either the bathroom or the bed¬ 
room beyond. 

Locke swung the door a little wider open, stepped 
through, and closed it noiselessly behind him. Again 
he stood still, his revolver now outthrust a little be¬ 
fore him. The moonlight played across the floor. It 
disclosed an open door beyond. Still no sound. 

Locked moved forward. He could see into the 
bedroom now. The bed was not only empty, but had 
not been slept in. He turned quickly and opened the 
bathroom door. The bathroom, too, was empty. 

Captain Francis Newcombe had not, then, as yet 
returned. With a grim smile Locke thrust his re¬ 
volver into his pocket. It was perhaps just as well— 


20 6 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


the time while he waited might possibly be used to very 
good advantage! Captain Francis Newcombe’s bag¬ 
gage was invitingly at one’s disposal—the Talofa, with 
its confined quarters, and where, on the little vessel, 
it was always crowded, as it were, had offered no such 
opportunity! 

Locke opened one of the bags. His smile now had 
changed to one of irony. Barring any other justifica¬ 
tion, turn about was no more than fair play, was it? 
He possessed a moral certainty, if he lacked the actual 
proof, that Captain Francis Newcombe had not hesi¬ 
tated to invade his, Locke’s, cabin on the liner and 
go through his, Locke’s, effects. 

He laughed a little now in low, grim mirth. He 
wondered which of the two, Newcombe or himself, 
would be the better rewarded for his efforts? 

There was little light, but Locke worked swiftly 
by the sense of touch, with fingers that ignored the 
general contents, and that sought dexterously for hid- 
den things. His fingers traversed every inch of the 
lining of the bag, top, bottom and sides. He dis¬ 
turbed nothing. 

Presently he laid the bag aside, and started on an¬ 
other—and ^uddenly he nodded his head sharply in 
satisfaction. This one was what was generally known 
as a Gladstone bag, and under the lining at one side 
his fingers felt what seemed like a folded paper that 
moved under his touch. The lining was intact, of 
course, but there must be some way of getting in un¬ 
derneath it—yes, here it was! Rather clever! And 
ordinarily quite safe—unless one were actually looking 
for something of the sort! There was a flap, or 
pocket, at the side of the bag, the ordinary sort of 


THE FIGHT 


207 

thing, and at the bottom of the flap Locke’s fingers, 
working deftly, found that the edges of the lining, 
while apparently fastened together, were made, in 
reality, into a double fold—the lining being stiff 
enough, even when the edges were displaced, to fall 
back of its own accord into place again. 

He separated the edges now, worked his fingers 
into the opening, and drew out an envelope. It had 
been torn open at one end, and there was a super¬ 
scription of some sort on it in faded writing which, 
in the semi-darkness, he could not make out. He stood 
up, and went quickly to the window to obtain the full 
benefit of the moonlight. He could just decipher the 
writing now: 

“Polly’s papers which is God’s truth, 

Mrs. Wickes X her mark.” 

For a moment he stood there motionless—but his 
eyes had lifted from the envelope now and were fixed 
on the lawn below. The window here gave on the 
side of the lawn with the trees at the rear of the house 
in view. A man had just stepped out from the shadow 
of the trees and was coming toward the house. 

Locke stared, even the envelope in his hand tem¬ 
porarily forgotten, as a frown of perplexity that deep¬ 
ened into amazed chagrin gathered on his forehead. 
The figure was quite recognisable, even minutely so. 
It was Captain Francis Newcombe. It accounted for 
the missing sockets on that French window perhaps— 
but the man was as perfectly and immaculately dressed 
as he had been that night at dinner. There was no 
torn coat—on missing coat sleeve. The man he had 


208 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


fought with, the man in the mask, had not been Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe. 

He laughed now—not pleasantly. He had obvi¬ 
ously been waiting here for the wrong man. There 
was no need of waiting any longer—unless he desired 
to be caught himself! Queer! Strange! But there 
was the envelope. Polly’s papers! What was it that 
was “God’s truth”? At least, he would find that out! 

He thrust the envelope into his pocket, closed the 
bag, and returned to his own room. He switched 
on the light, hurriedly took the envelope from his 
pocket again, and from it drew out two documents. 
He studied them while minute after minute passed, 
then dropping them on the table before him, he stood 
with drawn face and clenched fists staring across the 
room. Polly’s birth certificate! The marriage cer¬ 
tificate of her parents! He saw again the agony in 
the dark eyes, he heard again the agony in the voice 
that had proclaimed a parentage outside the pale. 
And a great oath came now from Locke’s white lips. 

He flung himself into a chair beside the table. He 
fought for cool, contained reasoning. These papers 
—Newcombe! Did it change anything, place New¬ 
combe in any better light, because it was some other 
man who had worn that mask to-night? He shook 
his head in quick, emphatic dissent. It did not! He 
was sure, certain of that. The trail led too far back, 
was too well defined, too conclusive. And even to¬ 
night! What was Newcombe doing out of the house 
at three o’clock in the morning? Ah, yes—he had it! 
The old maniac’s words came back with sudden and 
sure significance: “Digging—digging—digging. . . . 


THE FIGHT 


209 

The wrong scent. . . . The hut in the woods at the 
rear of the house.” 

Locke gnawed savagely at his lips. That was where 
Newcombe had come from—the woods at the rear 
of the house. It meant that Newcombe was the one 
who had been tricked by the old madman’s cunning, 
which could never have happened if Newcombe had 
not been stealthily trying to find the hidden money; 
it simply meant that Newcombe was the one who had 
been on the wrong scent—and that some one else had 
been on the right one! 

His face was set in lines like chiselled marble now. 
Who was this “some one else”? Was the question 
very hard to answer? The field was very limited— 
significantly limited now! He wasn’t wrong, was he? 
He couldn’t be wrong! And there was always the 
torn sleeve! 

Locke’s eyes fixed upon the two documents on the 
table again. Captain Francis Newcombe! No; it did 
not make Newcombe any the less a guilty man because 
it was not he who had worn the mask to-night. New¬ 
combe stood out sharply defined against the light of 
evidence which, if only circumstantial, was strong 
enough to damn the man a thousand times over for 
what he was. And here, adding to that evidence, 
was the proof that Polly’s identity had been, and was 
being, deliberately concealed from her. It opened a 
vista to uglier and still more evil things—things that 
only a soul dead to decency, black as the pit of hell, 
could have conceived and patiently put into execution. 
A child—a gutter-snipe, Polly had called herself—- 
rescued from naked poverty and the slums of White- 


210 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

chapel by a man such as Newcombe, whose only 
promptings were the promptings of a fiend! Why? 
Was there room to question further why Captain 
Francis Newcombe had years ago adopted such a 
ward—when now before one’s eyes those years were 
bearing their poison fruit? Polly’s introduction into 
this family here was even at this moment being traded 
upon to effect the theft of half a million dollars. That 
was too obvious now to permit denial. Newcombe 
was making of a girl, high-minded, pure-souled, a 
hideous cat’s-paw. Yes, yes! All that was clear 
enough! But why should Polly have been deprived 
of her rightful name, her claim to honest parentage? 
Was it to weld a stronger bond of gratitude—or make 
her the more helpless, and therefore the more de¬ 
pendent upon her guardian? Where were these par¬ 
ents? Dead or living? There was Mrs. Wickes— 
Mrs. Wickes, who had posed as the mother! Well, 
there were certain quarters in London where those 
who strayed outside the law could be made to talk. 
Mrs. Wickes should be able to furnish very interesting 
information. It was not far to Whitechapel and Lon¬ 
don—by cable. 

His mind, his brain, worked on—but now suddenly 
in turmoil and misery despite all effort of his to hold 
himself in check. 

Polly! Polly Gray! 

She loved this monster—that she thought a man, 
and called her guardian. Not the love of a maid for 
lover; but with the love, the honour, the respect and 
gratitude that she would give a cherished father. 

The truth would break her heart. The love her 
friends had given her, turned to their own undoing! 


THE FIGHT 


211 


The shame would be torture; the self-degradation, 
the abasement that she would know, would be beyond 
the bearing. Her faith would be a shattered thing! 

Locke’s clenched hands lay outspread across the 
table. He drew them suddenly together and dropped 
his head upon them. 

“And you love her,” he whispered to himself. “Do 
you know what that is going to mean? You did not 
count on that, did you? Do you know where that 
will lead? Do you know the consequences?” 

He answered his own questions. 

“No,” he said numbly; “I don’t know what it is 
going to mean. I know I love her.” 


—VIII— 


THE MESSAGE 

P OLLY WICKES, from her pillow, stared into 
the darkness. There had been no thought of 
sleep; it did not seem as though there ever 
could be again. She had undressed and gone to bed 
—but she had done this mechanically, because at night 
one went to bed, because she had always gone to bed. 
Not to sleep! 

The tears blinding her eyes, she had groped her 
way up the stairs from the living room where she 
had left Howard Locke, and somehow she had reached 
her room. That was hours and hours ago. Surely 
the daylight would come soon now; surely it would 
soon be morning. She wanted the daylight, she wanted 
the morning, because the darkness and the stillness 
seemed to accentuate a terrible and merciless sense 
of isolation that had come so swiftly, so suddenly into 
her life—to overturn, to dominate, to stupefy, to cast 
contemptuously aside the dreams and thoughts and 
hopes of happiness and contentment. And yet, though 
she yearned for the morning, she even dreaded it more. 
How could she meet Howard Locke—at breakfast? 
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t go down to breakfast. 

The small hands came from under the coverings, 
and clasped themselves tightly about the aching head 
—and she turned and buried her face in the pillow. 
She might easily, very easily evade breakfast—and 
postpone the inevitable for a few minutes, even a 


212 


THE MESSAGE 


213 

few hours. Why did she grasp at pitiful subterfuges 
such as that? 

She was nameless. 

That phrase had come hours ago. It had scorched 
itself upon her brain—as a branding iron at white 
heat sears its imprint upon quivering flesh, never to 
be effaced, always to endure. She was nameless. It 
wasn’t that she had not always known it—she always 
had. But it meant now what it had never meant be¬ 
fore. Until now it had been as something that, since 
it must be borne, she had striven to bear with what 
courage was hers, and, denying its right to embitter 
life, had sought to imprison it in the dim recesses of 
her mind—but now in an instant it had broken its 
bonds to stand forth exposed in all its ugliness; no 
longer captive, but a vengeful captor, claiming its 
miserable right from now on to control and dominate 
her life. 

She had thought of love—it would have been un¬ 
natural if she had not. But she had never loved, and 
therefore she had thought of it only in an abstract 
way. Dream love—fancies. But she loved now—she 
loved this man who had so suddenly come into her 
life—she loved Howard Locke. And happinesss, 
greater than she had realised happiness could ever 
be, had unfolded itself to her gaze, and love had 
become a vibrant, personal thing, so wonderful, so 
tender and so glad a thing, that beside it all the world 
was little and insignificant and empty; but even as the 
glory of it, and the joy of it had burst upon her, she 
had been obliged to turn away from it—not very 
bravely, for the tears had scalded her as she had 
run from the living room—because there was no other 


214 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

thing to do, because it was something that was not 
hers to have. 

She could never be the wife of any man. 

She was nameless. 

Why had she ever found it out! It might so easily 
have been that she would have never known. That 
—that no one need ever have known! She was sure 
that even her guardian did not know. 

She smothered her face deeper in the pillow as she 
cried out in anguish. She could have had happiness 
then—and—and it would have been honourable for 
her to have taken it, wouldn’t it? 

She lay quiet for a little while. No; that was 
cowardly, selfish. If she really loved this man, she 
should be glad for his sake that she knew the truth, 
glad now of the day when she had found it out. She 
remembered that day. It seemed to live more vividly 
before her now than it ever had before. Mrs. Wickes 
—her mother—had—had been drinking. The words 
had been a slip of the tongue; a slip that her mother, 
owing to her condition at the time, had not even been 
conscious of. Mrs. Wickes had been garrulously re¬ 
counting some sordid crime that had remained famous 
even amongst its many fellows in Whitechapel, and, 
in placing the date, had stated it was two years after 
Mr. Wickes had died. Later on, in the same garrulous 
account, she had again referred to the date, but had 
placed it this time by saying that she, Polly, was a 
baby not more than a month old when it had hap¬ 
pened. 

And on that day when she had listened to her 
mother’s tale she had still been but a child—in years. 
She could not have been more than twelve—but she 


THE MESSAGE 


215 

was very old for twelve. The slums of London had 
seen to thati And so, the next day, when her mother 
had been more herself, she had asked Mrs. Wickes, 
more out of a precocious curiosity perhaps than any¬ 
thing else, for an explanation. Mrs. Wickes had 
flown into a furious rage. 

“Mind yer own business!” Mrs. Wickes had 
screamed at her. “The likes of you a-slingin’ mud 
at yer mother! Wot you got to complain of? Ain’t 
I takin’ care of you? If ever you says another word 
I’ll break yer back!” 

She had never said another word. In one sense 
she had not been different from any other child of 
twelve then, and it had not naturally caused any 
change in her feelings toward her mother; nor in the 
after years, with their fuller light of understanding, 
had it ever changed or abated her love for the mother 
with whom she had shared hardship and distress and 
want. She thanked God for that now. Her mother 
might have been one to inspire little love and little 
of respect in others; but to her, Polly, when she had 
parted from her mother to come here to America, she 
had parted from the only human being in all the world 
she had ever loved, or who, in turn, had ever showed 
affection for her. She had never ceased to love her 
mother; instead, she had perhaps been the better able 
to understand, and even to add sympathy to love and 
to know a great pity, where bitterness and resentment 
and unforgiveness might otherwise have been, because 
she, too, had lived in those drab places where the urge 
of self-preservation alone was the standard that meas¬ 
ured ethics, where one fought and snatched at any¬ 
thing, no matter from where or by what means it 


216 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


came, that kept soul and body together—because she 
could look out on that life, not as one apart, but 
with the eyes of one who once had been a—a gutter¬ 
snipe. 

And now? 

Now that this crisis in her life had come—what 
now? She did not know. She had been trying to 
think calmly, but her brain would not obey her—it 
was crushed, stunned. It ached even in a physical 
way, frightfully, and— 

She raised her head suddenly from the pillow in a 
sort of incredulous amazement—and immediately 
afterward sat bolt upright in bed. The telephone here 
in her room was ringing. At this hour! Her heart 
suddenly seemed to stop beating. Something—some¬ 
thing must be wrong—something must have happened 
—Dora—Mr. Marlin! 

It was still ringing—ringing insistently. 

She sprang from the bed, and, running to the ’phone, 
snatched the receiver from its hook. 

“Yes, yes?” she answered breathlessly. “What is 
it?” 

A voice came over the wire; a man’s voice, rising 
and falling creepily in a sing-song, mocking sort of 
way: 

“Is that you, Polly—Polly Wickes — Polly 
Wickes—Polly Wickes—Wickes—Wickes—P-o-l-l-y 
W-i-c-k-e-s?” 

It frightened her. She felt the blood ebb from her 
cheeks. There was something horribly familiar in the 
voice—but she could not place it. Her hand reached 
out to the wall for support. 

“Yes”—she tried to hold her voice in control, to 


THE MESSAGE 


217 

answer steadily—“yes; I am Polly Wickes. Who are 
you? What do you want?” 

She heard the sound as of a gust of wind from a 
door that was suddenly blown open, the beat of the 
sea, then the slam of a door—and then the voice 
again: 

“Polly—Polly Wickes.” The words seemed to be 
choked now with malicious laughter. “Why don’t you 
dress in black, Polly Wickes—Polly Wickes—for your 
mother, Polly Wickes?” 

“What do you mean?” she cried frantically. “Who 
are you? Who are you? What do you mean?” 

There was no answer. 

She kept calling into the ’phone. 

Nothing! No reply! The voice was gone. 

She stood there staring wildly through the dark¬ 
ness. Black . . . for her mother . . . dead! No, 
no ... it couldn’t be true! That voice . . . yes, it 
was like the horrible voice that had called out the 
other night . . . she knew now why it was famil¬ 
iar. . . . 

Terror-stricken, the receiver dropped from her 
hand. 

Dead! Her mother dead! It couldn’t be true! 
She began to grope around her. The chair—her 
dressing gown. Her hands felt the garment. She 
snatched it up, flung it around her, and stumbled to 
the door and along the hall to Captain Francis New- 
combe’s room. And here she knocked mechanically, 
but, without listening for response, opened the door, 
and, stumbling still in a blind way, crossed the thresh¬ 
old. 

“Guardy! Guardy! Oh, guardy!” she sobbed out. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


218 

Captain Francis Newcombe was not asleep. Quite 
apart from the fact that he had only got to bed but 
a very short while before, the cards that night had 
gone too badly against him, and there was a savage 
sense of fury upon him that would not quiet down. 
And now, as he heard his door open and heard Polly 
call, he was out of bed and into a dressing gown in 
an instant. Polly out there in his sitting room—at 
half-past four in the morning! And she was sobbing. 
She sobbed now as he heard her call again: 

“Guardy! Guardy! Oh, guardy!” 

This was queer—damned queer! His face was sud¬ 
denly set in the darkness as he crossed the bedroom 
floor—but his voice was quiet, cool, reassuring, as he 
answered her: “Right-o, Polly! Pm coming!” 

He switched on the light as he entered the sitting 
room. It brought a quick, startled cry over the sobs. 

“Oh, please, guardy!” she faltered out. “I—I— 
please turn off the light.” 

“Of course!” he said quietly—and it was dark in 
the room again. 

He had caught a glimpse of a little figure crouch¬ 
ing just inside the door—a little figure with white, 
strained face, with great, wondrous masses of hair 
tumbling about her shoulders, with hands that clasped 
some filmy drapery tightly across her bosom, and 
small, dainty feet that were bare of covering. And 
as he moved toward her now across the room, another 
mood took precedence over the savagery he had just 
been nursing—a mood no holier. It might be queer, 
this visit of hers; but that glimpse of her, alluring, 
intimate, of a moment gone, had set his blood afire 
again—and far more violently than it had on that 


THE MESSAGE 219 

first occasion when he had seen her here on the island 
two nights ago. It brought again to the fore the 
question that, through a cursed nightmare of happen¬ 
ings, had almost since that time lain dormant. Was 
he going to let Locke have her—or was he going to 
keep her for himself? How far had she gone with 
Locke? They had been a lot together. Well, that' 
mattered little—if he wanted her for himself he would 
make the way to get her, Locke and hell combined to 
the contrary! The woman—against her potential 
value as somebody else’s wife! Damn it, that was the 
wonder of her—that she could even hold her own 
when weighed on such scales. There were lots of 
women. 

He had reached her now, and touched her, found 
her hand and taken it in his own. “What is it, Polly?” 
he asked gently. “What’s the matter?” 

“It’s—it’s mother,” she whispered brokenly. “The 
telephone in my room rang a few minutes ago, and 
some one—a man—and, oh, guardy, I’m sure it was 
the same voice that we heard when we were in the 
woods the night before last—asked me why I didn’t 
wear black for my mother. It—it couldn’t mean any¬ 
thing else but—but that mother is dead. Oh, guardy, 
guardy! How could he know, guardy? How could 
he know?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe made no movement, 
save to place his arm around the thinly clad shoulders, 
and draw the little figure closer to him. It was dark 
here, she could not have seen his face anyway, but 
it was composed, calm, tranquil. Perhaps the lips 
straightened a little at the corners—nothing more. 
But the brain of the man was working at lightning 


220 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


speed. Here was disaster, ruin, exposure if he made 
the slightest slip. Again, eh? This was the fourth 
time this devil from the pit had shown his hand! 
The reckoning would be adequate! But how was he 
to answer Polly? Quick! She must not notice any 
hesitation. Tell her that Mrs. Wickes was dead? He 
had a ready explanation on his tongue, formulated 
days ago, to account for having withheld that informa¬ 
tion. Seize this opportunity to tell her that Mrs. 
Wickes was not her mother? No! Impossible! He 
had meant to use all this to his advantage, and in 
his own good time. It was too late now. He was 
left holding the bag! If he admitted that Mrs. 
Wickes was dead, he admitted that there was some 
one on this island whose mysterious presence, whose 
mysterious knowledge, must cause a furor, a search, 
with possible results that at any hazard he dared not 
risk. Polly would tell Locke—Dora—everybody. It 
was impossible! But against this, sooner or later, 
Polly must know of Mrs. Wickes’ death, and— Bah! 
Was he become a child, the old cunning gone? He 
would keep her for a while from England—travel— 
anything—and, months on, the word would come that 
Mrs. Wickes was dead, and found in the old hag’s 
effects would be Polly’s papers. The one safe play, 
the only play, was not alone to reassure the girl now, 
but to keep her mouth shut. Above all to keep her 
mouth shut! But—how? How? Yes! He had it 
now! His soul began to laugh in unholy glee. His 
voice was grave, earnest, tender, sympathetic. 

“He couldn’t have known, Polly,” he said. “That 
is at once evident on the face of it. How could any 
one on this little out-of-the-way island possibly know 
a thing like that when I, who am the only one who 


221 


THE MESSAGE 

could know, and who have just come direct from 
England, know it to be untrue. Don’t you see, Polly?” 

He had drawn her head against his shoulder, strok¬ 
ing back the hair from her forehead. She raised it now 
quickly. 

“Yes, guardy!” she said eagerly. “I—I see; and 
I’m so glad I came to you at once. But—but it is so 
strange, and—and it still frightens me terribly. I 
don’t understand. I—I can’t understand. Why 
should any one ring the telephone in my room at this 
hour, and—and tell me a thing like that if it were not 
true?” 

“Or even if it were true—at such an hour, or in 
such a manner,” he injected quietly. “Tell me exactly 
what happened, Polly.” 

“I think I’ve told you everything,” she said. “I 
don’t think there was anything else. When I answered 
the ’phone, the voice asked if I were Polly Wickes, 
and kept on repeating my name over and over again 
in a horrible, crazy, sing-songy way, and then I heard 
a sound as though a door had been blown open by the 
wind, and I could hear the waves pounding, and then 
the door was evidently slammed shut again, and the 
voice said what I—I have told you about wearing 
black for my mother. And then I couldn’t hear any¬ 
thing more, and I couldn’t get any answer, though I 
called again and again into the ’phone. Oh, guardy, 
I can’t understand! I—Pm sure it was the same voice 
as that other night. What does it mean? Guardy, 
what should we do? Who could it be?” 

A door blown open by the wind! The pound of 
the waves! Where was there a telephone that would 
measure up to those requirements? Not in the house! 
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled grimly in the dark- 


222 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


ness. The private installation was restricted to the 
house and its immediate surroundings. Therefore the 
boathouse! The boathouse had a ’phone connection. 
And there was still an hour or more to daybreak! 
But first to shut Polly’s mouth. 

“Polly,” he said gravely, measuring his words, “I 
haven’t the slightest doubt but that it was the same 
voice we heard in the woods; in fact, I’m quite sure 
of it. And I’m equally sure now that I know who 
it is.” 

She drew back from him in a quick, startled way. 

“But, guardy, you said it was only some one cat¬ 
calling to—” 

“Yes; I know,” he interrupted seriously. “But I 
did not tell you what I was really suspicious of all 
along. With what I had to go on then, it did not 
seem that I had any right to do so. It’s quite a dif¬ 
ferent matter now, however, after what has happened 
to-night.” 

“Yes?” she prompted anxiously. 

“There can be only two possible explanations,” he 
said. “Either some one is playing a cruel hoax; or 
it is the work of an unhinged mind, an irrational act, 
a phase of insanity that—” 

“Guardy!” she cried out sharply. “You mean—” 

“Yes,” he said steadily; “I do, Polly. And there 
can really be no question about it at all. Can you 
imagine any one doing such a thing merely from a 
perverted sense of humour?—any one of us here?— 
for it must have been some one of us who is connected 
with the household in order to have had access to a 
telephone. It is unthinkable, absurd, isn’t it? On the 
other hand, the hour, the irresponsible words, their 
‘crazy’ mode of expression, as you yourself said, the 


THE MESSAGE 


223 

motiveless declaration of a palpable untruth, all stamp 
it as the work of one who is not accountable for his 
actions—of one who is literally insane. And then the 
fact that you recognised the voice as the one we heard 
two nights ago is additional proof, if such were needed, 
which it very obviously is not. You remember that 
we had seen Mr. Marlin in his dressing gown disap¬ 
pear under the verandah a few minutes before we 
heard the calls and cries and wild, insane laughter. 
My first thought then was that it was Mr. Marlin, 
and I was afraid that either harm had, or might, come 
to him. I sent you at once back to the house, and I 
ran into the woods to look for him. I did not find 
him; and, therefore, as there was always the possi¬ 
bility then that I had been mistaken, I felt that I 
should not alarm any of you here, and particularly 
Miss Marlin, by suggesting that Mr. Marlin’s con¬ 
dition was decidedly worse than even it was supposed 
to be. Is it quite plain, Polly? I do not think we 
have very far to look for the one who telephoned you 
to-night.” 

He could just see her in the darkness, a little white, 
shadowy form, as she stood slightly away from him 
now. One of her hands was pressed in an agitated 
way to her face and eyes; the other still held tightly 
to the throat of her dressing gown. 

“Oh, yes, it’s plain, guardy,” she whispered mis¬ 
erably. “It’s—it’s too plain. Poor, poor Mr. Mar¬ 
lin! What are we to do? It would hurt Dora terri¬ 
bly if she knew her father had done this. I—I can’t 
tell her.” 

“Of course, you can’t,” said Captain Francis New- 
combe gravely. “Your position is even more delicate 
than mine was the other night. I do not see that you 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


224 

can do anything—except to say nothing about it to 
any one for the present.” 

“Yes,” she agreed numbly. 

She began to move toward the door. 

“It’s not likely to happen again,” said Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe reassuringly; “and, anyway, you can 
make sure it won’t by just leaving the receiver off the 
hook. Do that, Polly.” And then, solicitously: “But 
you’re not frightened any more now, are you, Polly? 
A mystery explained loses its terror, doesn’t it? And, 
besides, the main thing was to know that you mother 
was all right.” 

“My mother—” 

He thought he heard her catch her breath in a 
quick, sudden half sob. 

“It’s all right, Polly,” he said hastily. “Don’t think 
of that part of it any more. Everything’s all right.” 

“Yes; I—I know.” Her voice was very low. “It’s 
—all right. I—good-night, guardy.” 

She had opened the door. 

“I’ll see you to your room,” he said. 

“No,” she answered; “I’m not frightened any more. 
Good—good-night, guardy.” 

“Good-night, Polly,” he said. 

The door closed. 

Captain Francis Newcombe stood in the darkness. 
And for a moment he did not move—but the mask 
was gone now, and the laughter that came low from 
his lips was a mirthless sound, and the working face 
was black with fury. And then he turned, and with 
a bound was back in the bedroom, and snatching at 
his clothes began to dress. 

There was still an hour to daybreak. 


BOOK III: The Penalty 






BOOK III: THE PENALTY 


—I— 

THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 

AN hour to daybreak! Passion, unchecked and 
r\ unrestrained, was stamped on Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s face as he dressed now with sav¬ 
age, ferocious haste. He swore and snarled, making 
low venomous sounds in the fury that possessed him. 
There was no longer room for the fear that last night, 
here in his rooms, had gnawed at his soul itself— 
the fear of the unknown; there was no longer room 
for fear in any sense, whether born of the intangible, 
or whether it knew its source in man, or God, or devil 
—there was only murder, that alone, in his heart. 

The blows were coming nearer and nearer home. 
Too near! And his efforts to strike one in return 
had resulted in little to boast about so far! Disaster, 
ruin, that dangling gibbet chain, were inevitable if 
this went on. He had been too cautious perhaps! 
Well, that was ended now! He swore again—bitter, 
sacrilegious in his rage. The luck had been running 
against him. Even an old fool had tricked him—even 
a maniac, a cracked-brained idiot, and one almost 
in his dotage besides, had tricked him! Last night 
after he had read that infernal message at the hut 
he had made no effort to uncover the madman’s horde 
—he had lain there waiting. Hours of waiting, pa¬ 
tient waiting—listening—his revolver in his hand—the 

227 


228 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

one chance that the unknown might not have gone 
away, might have lingered, hidden in the foliage, to 
gloat —-and die. He had waited in vain. To-night 
he had gone back to the hut only to find after hours 
of search that the old madman’s money, wherever else 
it might be, was not there. And then he had returned 
here—and again the unknown had struck swiftly, 
viciously, cunningly. 

When, where, how would the next blow fall?—un¬ 
less he could now strike the quicker, and strike surely! 
How much farther was it to the abyss of exposure? 
To-night he had stood perilously close to its edge, 
hadn’t he? If he had not been able to pull the wool 
over Polly’s eyes with the specious explanation that 
it was old Marlin who had telephoned, he 
would— 

He stood suddenly motionless, tense, with his coat 
half on, his working lips drawn for the moment tight 
together. Had it been, after all, merely a specious 
explanation? Was he so sure that it wasn’t old Mar¬ 
lin, after all, who had telephoned? The old madman 
was cunning; and, granting that fact as a premise, his 
act last night in pretending to go to his money in 
the hut must have been prompted by suspicion of some 
sort. The money had never been in that hut. The 
bit of flooring that was loose was flush with the ground 
beneath, and the ground had never been disturbed— 
and this was true of everywhere else in the hut. The 
old maniac, then, was suspicious that he was being 
followed by somebody, and had set a false trail. Of 
whom would he be suspicious? The question answered 
itself. The newcomers on the island, of course. And, 
being suspicious of them, he would want to drive them 


THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 229 

away. To frighten Polly into the belief that her 
mother was dead might very easily appeal to an insane 
brain, and even to one that wasn’t, as a very clever 
and effective means of accomplishing this end surrep¬ 
titiously. Polly might very logically be expected in 
her grief to wish to bring her visit here to an end, 
even if she did not, indeed, insist on returning to Eng¬ 
land at once—and the result would be that all who 
had come here, Locke, Runnells and himself, would 
naturally leave with her. Why not? The madman 
was certainly cunning enough; he could have tele¬ 
phoned—and the motive was there. 

No! With an angry, self-contemptuous snarl, Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe jerked on his coat. Was he 
trying to qualify for an insane asylum himself? The 
old maniac could have done this to-night, otherwise 
the explanation made to Polly would have been merely 
an absurdity; but old Marlin had not been on the 
liner and could not have fired that shot through the 
cabin window—nor could the old man have known, 
as instanced by that voice in the woods, that he, New¬ 
combe, was Shadow Varne—or known anything of 
the murder of Sir Harris Greaves. The man who had 
telephoned to-night—making the fourth mysterious 
blow that had been struck—was the man who had 
showed his hand on those three former occasions. 
This was so blatantly obvious that to have allowed his 
brain to shoot off at a tangent so idiotic but increased 
his anger now. 

He sneered at himself as he finished dressing. 
There was only one man on the island who could be 
made to fit into each and every one of the four niches. 
Runnells! Runnells had been on board ship, even 


230 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

though at the time Runnells had apparently been 
asleep; Runnells was in a position to know, and to 
know what now appeared to be certainly too much, 
about Shadow Varne; and Runnells, though the man 
could prove nothing, was, more than any one else, 
in a position to entertain suspicions in reference to the 
murder of the baronet who meddled so gratuitously 
with the affairs of others. 

Captain Francis Newcombe slipped a flashlight and 
a revolver into his pocket, and made for the door of 
his room. Quite so! All this was nothing new—no 
new angle—he had mulled this over a hundred times 
before. But up to now he had held his hand—and 
for two very good reasons. In the first place, he 
had not been able to bring himself to believe that it 
was Runnells, for he could not see where Runnells 
would profit by any such game; and, secondly, as he 
had already argued with himself, should it not prove 
to be Runnells, he almost inevitably disclosed his own 
hand and his real purpose in coming here to Manwa 
Island, and it would in that case make a partner of 
Runnells—and partners shared in the profits! But the 
time for hesitation on any such score as that was 
gone now; not only because the ice he was treading on, 
already thin, had nearly broken through to-night, and 
the promise of imminent and final disaster was forcing 
his hand, but because, in respect of Runnells, the ab¬ 
sence of apparent motive—Runnells would be made 
to explain that!—counted for nothing now in view 
of the fact that he, Newcombe, had more to go on 
to-night than he had had before. Not only was Run¬ 
nells one who fitted into the role of the “unknown” 
on each of the four occasions, but Runnells, as though 


THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 


231 

to clear the matter of all doubt, knew what surely no 
one else on the island could possibly know—that Mrs. 
Wickes actually was dead. He, Newcombe, had him¬ 
self to blame for that, and it appeared now that he 
had trusted Runnells too far; but somebody had had 
to bury the old hag. Not Captain Francis New¬ 
combe! To have left her in the status of a pauper 
for the authorities, or the Mission Boards, or any of 
that ilk to have taken care of, and in view of the fact 
that it must have been known amongst her neighbours 
that she had for a long time received money from 
somewhere, talk, comment, investigation, official this 
and official that would have been invited. It might 
have amounted to nothing—but if a rock that is held 
in one’s hand is not thrown into the calm waters of 
a pool the placid surface is not disturbed! He had 
delegated Runnells to interview the undertaker and 
arrange for the quiet and unostentatious disposal of 
Mrs. Wickes’ mortal remains. Runnells, for the time 
being, did very well as a nephew of the deceased, who, 
though in neither close nor loving touch with his some¬ 
what questionable relation, at least recognised the 
family tie to the extent of paying for her very modest 
and unpretentious obsequies. 

Captain Francis Newcombe crept quietly along the 
hall now. Runnells’ room, thanks to the hospitable 
thoughtfulness of Miss Marlin, in order that the 
“man” might be nearer at hand and therefore the 
better able to serve his “master,” was not in the serv¬ 
ants’ quarters, but was at the extreme end of the hall 
here just at the head of the stairs. Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s hand felt along the wall to guide him in 
the darkness. He had no desire to stumble over any- 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


232 

thing and arouse anybody; Locke, or Dora Marlin, 
for instance—and he had not forgotten that Polly 
was probably lying wide awake. The only one to be 
aroused was Runnells—and that very quietly. Run- 
nells was a professional criminal, not a particularly 
clever one, but possessed, where a question of self- 
preservation was concerned, of a certain low cunning 
born of his hazardous career, a cunning that was not 
to be ignored. Cornered here in his room, for in¬ 
stance, Runnells, though quite well aware that he, 
Captain Francis Newcombe, would have no more hesi¬ 
tation about putting an end to him than an end to an 
obnoxious fly, would be equally well aware that here in 
the house he was possessed of a defence that rendered 
him invulnerable because no threat could be put into 
execution in silence, and that a cry, a shout, and, if 
necessary, to those who came to his succour, a con¬ 
fession of his own past misdeeds in order to prove 
his alliance with, and implicate his “master” in crim¬ 
inal intrigue, would protect him—for the moment— 
utterly. 

But he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had no inten¬ 
tion of making any such unpardonable misplay as that! 
Runnells would never look down the barrel of a re¬ 
volver with a confidence born of the fact that the trig¬ 
ger dared not be pulled; Runnells would never feel a 
grip upon his throat and still be able to defy the 
clutching fingers because he knew they feared the cry, 
the gasp, the noise of strangulation. It would not be 
in Runnells’ room that the man would lay bare his 
soul through fear to-night! Runnells would be played 
as a fish is played! 

Captain Francis Newcombe was halfway along the 


THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 233 

hall now. His mind, despite' the fury that from 
smouldering rage had broken into flaming heat, was 
logical, measured, precise. That telephone message 
could have come from nowhere else but from the boat¬ 
house. That was self-evident. If Runnells, then, was 
at the bottom of this, the question now was whether 
Runnells had got back to his room yet or not? And, 
if he were back, how long he had been back?—the 
man must be allowed to undress and get into bed. To 
discover Runnells fully dressed at this hour was to 
force the issue then and there in Runnells’ room; for 
Runnells, caught like that, while he might be voluble 
with explanations, would of necessity at the same time 
be thrown instantly upon his guard, and would not be 
fool enough to be enticed into any trap, no matter 
how apparently genuine the pretence of accepting his 
explanations might be made to appear. 

Captain Francis Newcombe was at the door now 
listening. Runnells would have had time by now to 
have got to bed; certainly there was no sound from 
within, and— He drew back from the door sud¬ 
denly, but as silently as a shadow. There was no 
sound from within, but some one was creeping, though 
with every attempt at silence, up the staircase. Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe retreated still a little farther 
back along the hall, and, with body hugged, now close 
against the wall, waited in the darkness. Fie could 
see nothing—not even across the hall; and, therefore, 
he was quite secure from being observed himself, but 
his hand, in his pocket now, was closed over the butt 
of his revolver. 

The sounds were very faint, but they were equally 
unmistakable—now the muffled, protesting creak of 


234 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

a stair tread; now that sound, like no other sound so 
much as the padded footfall of an animal, as weight 
was cautiously placed on the carpeted stairs. The foot¬ 
steps came nearer and nearer to the upper landing, 
slow, laborious in their caution and stealth. And then 
another sound—equally faint and equally unmistakable 
—the opening and closing of the door at the head of 
the stairs. 

Captain Francis Newcombe relaxed. His lips 
twisted into a smile of malignant satisfaction. 

Runnells! 

So it was Runnells who had indulged in that little 
telephone conversation; Runnells, the pitiful, fool¬ 
hardy moth—and the flame! Runnells, instead of be¬ 
ing already in bed, was just getting back. So much 
the better—it would tax Runnells’ ingenuity a little 
beyond its limitations to explain this unseemly hour! 
It made it perhaps just a little easier to handle and 
break the man. 

Captain Francis Newcombe moved silently back 
again to the door of Runnells’ room, and again lis¬ 
tened at the panels. The sound of movement from 
within was distinctly audible. Runnells was preparing 
to go to bed. 

The minutes passed—five—ten of them. It was 
quiet inside the room now. And then Captain Francis 
Newcombe knocked softly with his knuckles on the 
door—two raps in quick succession, then a single one 
followed by two more. 

There was a sound almost on the instant as of the 
sudden creaking of the bed, and then the hurry of 
feet across the floor to the door. Then silence again. 
Captain Francis Newcombe smiled thinly to himself. 


THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 235 

Runnells was caution itself. He repeated the knocks 
precisely as before. 

The door opened. Runnells showed as a white, 
vague figure in his night clothes. 

“What’s up?” whispered Runnells anxiously. 

“I’m afraid we’ve been spotted,” said Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe tersely. 

“Spotted!” Runnells echoed the word with a gulp. 
“Who by?” 

“Some swine from the Yard, I suppose,” replied 
Captain Francis Newcombe as tersely as before. “Do 
you remember Detective-Sergeant Mullins?” 

“Him?” gasped Runnells. “My Gawd, he ain’t 
followed us here, has he? Strike me pink! My 
Gawd! I said all along it was damned queer him 
showing up at the rooms that night. Are you sure?” 

“Not yet—and I never will be if you stand there 
gawking,” said Captain Francis Newcombe sharply. 
“Go and get your clothes on—and hurry up about it! 
It’ll soon be daylight. Every minute counts. Meet 
me down on the verandah.” 

He did not wait for Runnells’ reply. It was not 
necessary. Runnells had swallowed bait, hook and 
line. Captain Francis Newcombe indulged in a low, 
savage chuckle, as, descending the stairs, he unlocked 
the front door and stepped quietly out on the verandah. 
He had not lunged in the dark, nor was it chance that 
had prompted him to endow his bogey with the per¬ 
sonality of Detective-Sergeant Mullins—he had not 
forgotten Runnells’ white face on the occasion when 
the man from Scotland Yard had sent in his card! 

And now as he waited on the verandah, the low, 
savage chuckle came again. The boathouse would 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


236 

serve admirably—since Runnells seemed to have a 
penchant for it! It was far enough away to obviate 
the possibility of any sound carrying to the house; 
and, inside, it possessed light. He wanted light when 
he handled Runnells! Quite apart from the fact that 
darkness in itself afforded too many chances for a 
lucky escape, he could not read Runnells in the dark¬ 
ness. Also, affording him a malicious delight, there 
was exquisite irony in the thought that the setting for 
what was to come should be the one that Runnells 
had himself chosen to-night—for quite another pur¬ 
pose than that it should be the scene of his own un¬ 
doing ! 

The front door opened and Runnells emerged. 

“What’s the game?” Runnells asked hoarsely. 
“D’ye know where he is?” 

It was quite unnecessary to be anything but frank 
with Runnells as to their destination. Runnells, safe 
in the belief that he had been mistaken for one De¬ 
tective-Sergeant Mullins and that his “master” was 
wide of the mark and astray, would also enjoy the 
irony to be found in a trip to the boathouse. It would 
be a pity to deprive Runnells of anything like that! 
Captain Francis Newcombe nodded curtly, as, mo¬ 
tioning the other to follow, he led the way across the 
lawn. 

“Yes; I think so,” he said. “I’ve reason to believe 
he’s been using the boathouse to hide and live in.” 

“Strike me pink!” mumbled Runnells. “That’s 
what I always said to myself after that night: I says, 
‘look out for that bird’—and I was bloody well right.” 

“I fancy you were,” agreed Captain Francis New¬ 
combe coolly, “though I didn’t think so at the time. 


THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 237 

But hurry up! There’s no time to lose if we want 
to trap him.” 

They had entered the wooded path leading to the 
shore, and, curiously enough, Runnells was now in 
front—and in the darkness, as it swung at his side, 
Captain Francis Newcombe’s hand held a revolver. 

“How’d he get here?” Runnells jerked back over 
his shoulder. “How’d you twig it? And when did 
he come?” 

“About the same time we did, I imagine,” replied 
Captain Francis Newcombe shortly. “Don’t talk so 
loud—or any more at all, for that matter. The wind 
has died down a bit, and we might be heard. Make 
straight for one of those little bridges at the boat¬ 
house—the one on this side—the nearer one. Under¬ 
stand? And look out for yourself—the man’s no fool, 
I’ll say that for him.” 

“Right!” said Runnells in a muffled voice, as they 
came out of the woods and the boathouse loomed up, 
shadowy and indistinct, some fifty yards away. 

There was laughter in Captain Francis Newcombe’s 
soul now, a mirth parented out of savagery and vin¬ 
dictiveness, a laugh at the blind fool treading so war¬ 
ily and cautiously and silently across the sandy beach 
here in order that he should not be denied the sham¬ 
bles! The laugh seemed to demand physical, audible 
expression. He choked it back. In a moment or so 
more he could laugh to his heart’s content. The boat¬ 
house was only a few yards away now. He rubbed 
close against Runnells’ side, as though to preserve 
touch with the other in the darkness. Runnells’ re¬ 
volver was in the right-hand coat pocket, and— 

Both men had halted simultaneously. Close to the 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


238 

boathouse now and in its lee, the sound of the break¬ 
ing waves was somewhat deadened, but from under 
the overhang of the verandah there had come another 
sound, as though a vicious slapping were being given 
the comparatively smooth water under the boathouse, 
and then a sudden floundering and splashing, and then 
the slapping again. 

Runnells’ hand went to his side pocket—but as it 
came out again with his revolver Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s hand closed upon it like a vise, and with 
a quick twist and wrench secured the weapon. 

“What—what did you do that for?” Runnells stam¬ 
mered in a low, startled way. “Didn’t you hear that 
in under the boathouse? There’s some one there. 
Maybe it’s him ” 

Captain Francis Newcombe laughed now—aloud. 

“So you think there’s some one in under there, do 
you, Runnells ?”he drawled. 

“Yes,” said Runnells, and drew away a little. “You 
heard it just the same as I did, but—but I don’t un¬ 
derstand what you—” 

“You will in a minute!” Captain Francis New¬ 
combe’s voice was still a drawl. “But meanwhile we’ll 
see whether you’re right or not. You don’t mind 
going first, do you, Runnells?” His revolver muzzle 
was suddenly pressed against the small of Runnells’ 
back. “I’ve known you to be a bit tricky at times. 
Go on!” 

Something like a whimper came from Runnells. He 
stood irresolute. 

“Go on! In under there! We’ll see this ‘some 
one’ of yours first of all!” Captain Francis New¬ 
combe’s voice snapped now. “Move!” 


THE WHITE SHIRT SLEEVE 


239 

A push from the revolver muzzle sent Runnells 
forward. 

“What—what are you doing this to me for?” the 
man burst out in a shaken voice again. 

Captain Francis Newcombe made no answer. He 
too had heard the sounds in under here, but if Run¬ 
nells were up to some more of his games it would 
avail Runnells very little now. Runnells’ body, if 
there were by any chance some one ahead here in the 
darkness, made a most excellent and effective shield. 
It was inky black in here, and now underfoot, as they 
went forward, in place of the pure sand there were 
rocks and a slightly muddy bottom. 

His left hand deposited the surplus revolver in his 
pocket, and in exchange drew out his flashlight. He 
thrust the flashlight out beyond Runnells’ side in front 
of them both, and switched it on. 

A cry broke on the instant from Runnells’ lips—a 
cry of terror. 

“Look! Look!” Runnells cried. “Let me go! Let 
me get out of here! This is a horrible, slimy, ghastly 
hole! Let me go—let me go! It’s—it’s a dead 
man!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s jaws had clamped. 
Into the focus of the round white ray had come the 
big concrete pier that supported the building in the 
centre, slime-draped, green and oozy now with the tide 
still low; and, nearer in again, a black ribbon of water, 
strangely like silk in its rippling under the light, for 
the sea wall way out beyond had lulled it here into 
the quiet almost of a pond, lapped at the shore, lapped 
and lapped, as though striving with hideous patience 
to creep yet another inch onward, and yet another, and 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


240 

always another, that it might reach a huddled thing 
that lay still several yards away. 

A huddled thing! 

Captain Francis Newcombe pushed Runnells ruth¬ 
lessly forward until they both stood over it. And now 
the flashlight’s ray played upon it—upon a twisted, 
crumpled form, a dead thing, a man whose clothes in 
places were in ribbons as though the very body had 
been mangled, a man in a white shirt sleeve where 
the sleeve of the coat had been torn away at the arm- 
pit, a man around whose neck and across whose face 
were long, horribly regular lines of round, lurid 
marks, near purple now against the bloodless skin. 

And Runnells with a scream shrank back and cov¬ 
ered his face with his hands. 

“My Gawd!” he screamed out in terror. “It’s 
Paul!” he screamed. “It’s Paul Cremarre!” 


—II 


THE BRONZE KEY 

P AUL CREMARRE! 

And the man was not a pleasant sight! 

The slime, the water and the mud! The 
Stygian blackness that seemed to mock and jeer at 
the puny ray of the flashlight! The lap-lap-lap of 
the wavelets that echoed back in hollow, ghostly whis¬ 
pers from the flooring of the boathouse above! And 
Runnells, grovelling, drawing in his breath with loud 
sucking sounds. Noises of sea and air—indefinable— 
all discordant—like imps in jubilee! It was a ghouls’ 
hole! 

But Captain Francis Newcombe smiled—with a 
thin parting of the lips. He knew a sudden elation, 
a stupendous uplift. He found joy in each of those 
abominable marks on the face of the Thing that lay 
at the end of his flashlight’s ray. They were not 
pretty—but they were all too few! 

“Got your wind up, has it, Runnells?” he sneered 
—and thereafter for a moment, though he never let 
Runnells entirely out of the light’s focus, gave his 
fuller attention to Paul Cremarre. 

The man was dead, wasn’t he? It was a matter 
that could not be left in doubt—even where doubt 
seemed to be dispelled at a glance. He bent down 
over the other. An instant’s examination satisfied 
him The man was dead. His eyes roved over the 
body, and held suddenly on one of the man’s hands. 
Rather peculiar, that! The hand was tightly clenched. 

241 


242 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

One did not ordinarily die with one hand clenched 
and the other open! He forced the hand open. 
Something fell to the ground. He picked it up. It 
was a large bronze key about three inches in length. 
Cupping it in his hand so that Runnells might not in¬ 
advertently see it, he stared at it speculatively for a 
moment, then dropped it into his pocket. 

This was interesting, decidedly interesting—and 
suggestive! His flashlight became more inquisitive 
in respect of the immediate surroundings. Those foot¬ 
prints, for instance, in the half mud and sand, deep, 
irregular, which, leading up from the edge of the 
water some four or five yards away, ended where 
Paul Cremarre now lay—and another series of foot¬ 
prints, a little to the right, quite regular, which, though 
they also started from the water’s edge, lost them¬ 
selves in the direction of the beach in front of the 
boathouse. 

Captain Francis Newcombe worked swiftly now. 
He searched through the dead man’s pockets, trans¬ 
ferring the contents, without stopping to examine 
them, to his own pockets—and then abruptly and with¬ 
out ceremony swung upon Runnells. 

“We’ll finish this up in the boathouse!” he snapped. 

Runnells’ reply was inarticulate. 

Captain Francis Newcombe, with his revolver again 
at the small of Runnells’ back, drove the man before 
him—out from under the verandah, up one of the 
ramp-like bridges and into the little lounge room of 
the boathouse. Here, he switched on the light—and 
with a sudden, savage grip around Runnells’ throat, 
flung the man sprawling into one of the big easy chairs. 

“Now, my man,” he said, “we’ll have our little set- 


THE BRONZE KEY 


243 

tlement, since Paul has already had his! I congratu¬ 
late you— both! And perhaps you may have a very 
early opportunity of letting him know that I did not 
overlook him in my felicitations. Very neat—very 
clever of you two to play the game like this! I must 
confess that I did not think of Paul Cremarre in 
connection with what has been going on. I fancy that 
the very fact of you being here—the three divided, 
as it were—must have helped to act as a sort of 
mental blanket upon me in that respect. And even 
you I was forced to eliminate until to-night because 
I could not arrive at any logical reason that would 
explain your motive—for if I left the island here you 
would leave too. The combination, however, would 
be very effective! Paul Cremarre would be left be¬ 
hind with a free hand, eh?” Captain Francis New- 
combe’s voice rasped suddenly. “Now, then, you 
cur, what happened under the boathouse here to-night? 
What killed Paul?” 

Runnells’ face was a pasty white. He shrank back 
into the farthest recesses of the chair, and licked 
nervously at his lips. He tried twice to speak—in¬ 
effectually. His eyes seemed fascinated, not by the 
revolver that Captain Francis Newcombe had trans¬ 
ferred to his left hand, but by Captain Francis New- 
combe’s right hand that came creeping now with men¬ 
acing, half-curled fingers toward his throat. 

“Answer me—and answer quick!” snarled Captain 
Francis Newcombe. 

“I—I don’t know.” Runnells forced a shaken whis¬ 
per. “So help me, Gawd, I don’t! I don’t know 
who killed him.” 

“I didn’t say who; I said what!” Captain Francis 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


244 

Newcombe’s hand crept still closer to Runnells’ throat. 
“Don’t try any of that kind of game—you’re not 
brainy enough! It wasn’t anything human that killed 
Paul Cremarre.” 

“No,” mumbled Runnells, “no; it wasn’t anything 
human. Oh, my Gawd, the look of it! It—it made 
me sick. Those—those round red things on his face 
—and the eyes—the eyes— I—I ain’t afraid of a 
dead man, but—but I was afraid in there.” 

“Runnells,” said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly, 
“at bottom you are a stinking coward, a spineless 
thing—you always were. But you’ve never really 
known fear —not yet! I’m going to teach you what 
fear is!” 

“No!” Runnells screamed out, and pawed at the 
other’s hand that was now tight around his throat. 
“I’m telling the truth. I swear to Gawd I am! I 
don’t know what happened. I didn’t know Paul was 
here. I never saw him since we left London.” 

“Don’t lie!” Captain Francis Newcombe coolly 
and viciously twisted at the flesh in which his fingers 
were enmeshed. “I’m going to have the whole story 
now—or else you’ll follow Paul Cremarre. You’ve 
seen enough in the last three years to know that I 
never make an idle threat. It will be quite simple. 
You will disappear. I, myself, will be the most solici¬ 
tous of all about your disappearance. It would never 
be attributed to me. Is it quite plain, Runnells? You 
deserve it, anyway! Perhaps it’s a waste of time to 
do anything but get rid of you now before daylight. 
I’d rather like to do it, Runnells. It’s rather bad 
policy to give a man a chance to stab you a second time 
in the back.” 


2U 


THE BRONZE KEY 

The man was almost in a state of collapse. Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe loosened his hold, and, stand¬ 
ing back a little and toying with caressing fingers at 
his revolver’s mechanism, surveyed the other with 
eyes that, in meditation now, were utterly callous. 

“I—I know you’d do it.” Runnells, gasping for 
his breath, blurted out his words wildly. “I know it 
wouldn’t do me any good to lie—but I ain’t lying. 
Can’t you believe me? I wasn’t in it at all. I never 
knew Paul was on the island until just now.” 

“Go on!” encouraged Captain Francis Newcombe 
ironically. “So it wasn’t you who telephoned Polly 
from the boathouse here a little while ago?” 

Runnells’ eyes widened. 

“Me? No!” he cried out vehemently. “I haven’t 
been near here.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe frowned. He knew 
Runnells and Runnells’ calibre intimately and well. 
The man’s surprise was genuine. Another angle! It 
was possible, of course, that Paul Cremarre had been 
playing a lone hand; but against that was Runnells’ 
own actions to-night. Well, as it stood now, it was 
a very simple matter to put Runnells’ sincerity, or 
insincerity, to the proof. 

“No, of course not!” he observed caustically. “I 
didn’t expect you to admit it. Why don’t you tell me 
you spent the evening playing solitaire, then went to 
bed and slept like a child until I rapped on your 
door?” 

Runnells lifted miserable, hunted eyes to Captain 
Francis Newcombe’s face. 

“Because I’m only telling you the truth,” he said, 
with frantic insistence in his voice. “And that 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


JV4 

wouldn’t be the truth. I’ll tell you everything—every¬ 
thing. You can see for yourself it’s Gawd’s fact. I 
wasn’t asleep when you knocked. I had been out of 
my room, but I hadn’t been out of the house; and 
I hadn’t been in bed more than ten minutes when I 
heard you at the door.” 

“You rather surprise me, Runnells,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe coolly. “Not at what you say, 
for I was standing in the hall when you entered your 
room—but that for once you are guilty of an honest 
statement. Goon! What were you doing around the 
house ?” 

Runnells gulped, nervously massaging his pinched 
throat. 

“I got to go back to before we left London, if I’m 
going to make a clean breast of it,” he said, searching 
Captain Francis Newcombe’s face anxiously. “I—I 
knew then about the money out here. There was a 
letter under your pillow the day you got back from 
Cloverley’s, and when I propped you up in bed for 
your lunch I—I took it, and read it while I was feed¬ 
ing you your—” His words were blotted out in a 
sudden cry of fear. He was staring into a revolver 
muzzle thrust close to his face, and behind the re¬ 
volver were a pair of eyes that burned like living coals. 
“For Gawd’s sake,” he shrieked out, “captain— 
don’t!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe dropped the revolver 
to his side again. 

“You are quite right, Runnells,” he said whimsi¬ 
cally. “It would be inexcusable to stem any tide of 
veracity flowing from you. Well?” 

“I got to make you believe I’m telling the truth,” 


THE BRONZE KEY 


247 

choked Runnells, “and—and I know now I have. I 
didn’t say anything to Paul about it—I was keeping 
it to myself. And Paul didn’t say anything to me. I 
didn’t know he knew about it, and I don’t know now 
how he found out—but I suppose he must have some¬ 
how, for I suppose that’s what brought him here. As 
for me, what I read in that letter didn’t make any 
difference after all, because the minute I got here I 
knew what everybody else knew—that the dippy old 
bird had got half a million dollars hidden away some¬ 
where.” He hesitated a moment, drawing the back 
of his hand several times to and fro across his lips. 
“Well, that’s what I was doing to-night, and that’s 
what I was doing last night. I was searching the 
house trying to find out where he’d hidden the money. 
But I didn’t find it.” 

“No,” said Captain Francis Newcombe grimly; 
“Pm quite sure you didn’t. But if you had, Runnells 
—what then?” 

“I—Pm not sure.” Runnells licked at his lips 
again. “I know what you mean. It—it would have 
depended on you. You told me before we left Lon¬ 
don that on account of the girl being your ward we 
weren’t to do anything slippery in America, and if 
I’d made sure of that and was sure you wouldn’t 
come in on the job, then I’d have copped the swag 
and got away with it if I could; but if you would 
have come in, then I’d have told you where it was.” 

“Anything more?” inquired Captain Francis New¬ 
combe laconically. 

Runnells shook his head. 

“I’ve told you straight the whole thing,” he said 
numbly. 



248 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

It was a moment before Captain Francis New- 
combe spoke again. 

“Even on your own say-so,” he said deliberately at 
last, “you were prepared to double-cross me. Once 
I let a man toss a coin to see whether I shot him or 
not—for less than that. But you are not even en¬ 
titled to that much chance—except for the fact that 
perhaps after to-night you’ll be less likely to stick 
your filthy hands into my affairs. But even that is 
not what is outweighing my inclination to have done 
with you here and now. The fact is that, though I 
regret to admit it, you are, for the moment at least, 
more valuable alive.” 

Runnells straightened up a little in his chair. He 
swept his hand over a wet brow. 

“I’ll play fair after this,” he said hoarsely. “I take 
my oath to Gawd, I will!” 

“Or turn at the first chance like the dog who has 
been whipped by his master,” observed Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe indifferently. “Very good, Runnells! 
I never prolong discussions. The matter is ended— 
unless you are unfortunate enough to cause the sub¬ 
ject to be reopened at some future date! It is near 
daylight—and before daylight Paul Cremarre, what 
is left of him, must be disposed of. If the man is 
found here, the victim of a violent death, it means 
an inquest, the influx of authorities, the possible dis¬ 
covery of Cremarre’s identity—and ours!” 

“We could tie something heavy on him,” said Run¬ 
nells thickly, “and drop him in the water.” 

“We could—but we won’t,” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe curtly. “One never feels at ease with 
bodies disposed of in that fashion—they have been 


THE BRONZE KEY 


249 


known to come to the surface. It might be the easiest 
way, but it’s not the safest. I think you’ve heard me 
say before, Runnells, that chance is the playground of 
fools. Besides, our close and intimate friendship with 
Paul demands a little more reverent and circumspect 
consideration at our hands—what? Paul shall have a 
decent burial. We’ll dig a hole for him back there 
among the trees.” He thrust his hand suddenly into 
his pocket, brought out his flashlight, and tossed it 
into Runnells’ lap. “Go up to the house and get a 
spade, a couple of them if you can. There ought to 
be plenty somewliere in the out-houses at the back. 
And hurry!” 

“Yes—right!” Runnells stammered, as he rose to 
his feet and stood hesitant as though trying to say 
something more. 

“I said hurry—damn you!” snarled Captain Francis 
Newcombe. 

“Yes—right!” said Runnells mechanically again— 
and stumbled, half running, across the room and out 
of the door. 

Captain Francis Newcombe flung himself into the 
chair Runnells had vacated. His mind was on Paul 
Cremarre now. What was it that had caused the 
man’s death? As Runnells had said, it was a sicken¬ 
ing sight. Well, no matter! The mode or cause of 
death was an incident, wasn’t it? Paul Cremarre 
found here on the island, whether dead or alive, was 
what mattered—it meant that the menace, that hellish 
nightmare of the “unknown,” that had been hanging 
over him, Shadow Varne, was gone now—that the 
way was clear ahead—a fortune here—America once 
more an “open sesame”—riches, luxury, all he had 


250 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

builded for, his again to take at his leisure without 
fear now of any interference from any source. And 
yet he seemed to hate the man the more because he 
was dead. Cremarre had done what no other man 
had ever done to Shadow Varne—those black hours— 
last night—the night before. 

His hands clenched fiercely. He knew a sudden, 
unbridled rush of anger directed against the agency, 
be it what it might, that had caused Paul Cremarre’s 
death—that had forever removed the man beyond 
his reach, and had robbed him of a right that alone 
was his to settle with the man. He had owed the 
other a debt that he could never now repay—the sort 
of debt that Shadow Varne, until now, had never 
failed to pay. It was all clear enough now. Paul 
Cremarre, if not from the moment he had read Polly’s 
letter that morning in London, had finally at any rate 
yielded to the temptation that the opportunity of 
securing so great a sum of money had dangled before 
his eyes. Cremarre, like Runnells, had very possibly, 
and perhaps not unwarrantably, been sceptical about 
his, Captain Francis Newcombe’s, statement that the 
money here was to be held inviolable; but whether 
he had or not made very little difference in the last 
analysis, for, either way, it would be obvious to Paul 
Cremarre that he would get none of the money unless 
he got it through his own secret endeavours, since, 
even if he, Captain Francis Newcombe, were after it 
for himself, Cremarre would realise that he was not 
to share in the spoils. 

It was quite plain! It was Paul Cremarre who 
had fired that shot through the cabin window in the 
storm on the liner that night in order to possess for 


THE BRONZE KEY 


251 

himself a free hand on the island here. The man, in 
disguise of course, had sailed on the same ship—be¬ 
cause he would not have dared to have left London 
before he, Newcombe, left, for fear of arousing sus¬ 
picions, since he was known to be acquainted with the 
contents of the letter; and he would not have dared 
risk a later vessel for fear of arriving too late and 
only to find the money gone should he, Newcombe, 
prove to be after it for himself. It was Paul Cre- 
marre here on the island who had on those three occa¬ 
sions, ending with to-night, sought through the medium 
of fear, no, more than that, through an appeal to the 
impulse for self-preservation, to drive him, Newcombe, 
away—and leave Paul Cremarre in sole possession of 
the field. And it was quite plain now, too, why the 
man had not, here on the island, attempted murder 
again as he had done on the liner. It was not that 
the chances of discovery were less on board the ship; 
but that here a murder would cause an invasion of 
the island by police and detectives which would auto¬ 
matically hamper Cremarre in his efforts to find the 
money, if, indeed, it would not force him to leave 
the island entirely in order to make his own escape. 

Captain Francjs Newcombe’s hand was groping ten¬ 
tatively in his pocket now. It was not at all unnatural 
that the thought of Paul Cremarre had not entered 
his head. To begin with, he had trusted the hound; 
and, again, he had sailed immediately on the first ship 
after leaving the man in London. But now! Yes, 
that was where the crux of the whole thing lay—the 
time spent on that yachting trip of Locke’s down the 
coast. Paul Cremarre had probably been on the island 
for several days before the Talofa arrived, and— 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


252 

His hand came out of his pocket. In its palm lay 
the bronze key. He stared at it thoughtfully. 'No, 
Paul Cremarre had not succeeded in getting the mad¬ 
man’s money prior to to-night, for in that case old 
Marlin would have discovered his loss and raised a 
wild fuss; and, besides, if successful, Cremarre would 
have left the island without loss of time. Nor had 
Cremarre been quite successful to-night, for the money 
was not on his person; but he had been—what? Cap¬ 
tain Francis Newcombe stared for another long min¬ 
ute at the bronze key, then jumping suddenly up from 
the chair, he crossed over to the table and began to 
divest his pockets of the articles he had taken from 
Paul Cremarre. He tumbled them out on the table: 
A roll of bills; a passport—made out under an as¬ 
sumed name—to one Andre Belisle; a few papers such 
as railroad folders, a small map of the Florida Keys, 
some descriptive matter pertaining thereto, and among 
these a little book. 

Captain Francis Newcombe snatched up the book 
—and suddenly he began to laugh, a strange laugh, 
hoarse with elation, a laugh that even found expres¬ 
sion in the quick, triumphant glitter in his eyes. Sev¬ 
eral times in the short period during which he had 
been here on the island he had seen this little book, 
and more than once he had endeavoured unostenta¬ 
tiously to obtain a closer look at it, but without suc¬ 
cess. It was the old madman’s little book—the little 
buff-coloured, paper-covered little book that the old 
fool, he had noticed, would frequently pull out of 
his pocket and consult for no reason apparently other 
than that it had become a habit with him. It was a 
common book, a very common book—an innocent 


THE BRONZE KEY 


253 

book. Its title was on the cover. It was a book of 
tide tables. 

And again and again now Captain Francis New- 
combe laughed. The bronze key and the book of tide 
tables! The pieces of the puzzle aligned themselves 
of their own accord into a complete whole. An hour 
later every night! The old madman went out an 
hour later every night. So did the tide! Those foot¬ 
prints there under the boathouse—not Paul Cre- 
marre’s, the other ones! The succession of nights 
during which the old maniac went out until the hour 
just before daybreak was reached—and then the period 
of inaction. At low water, like to-night, eh? Yes, 
yes! He did not go out when the tide was low too 
early in the evening or too late in the morning; in 
the former case for fear of being seen, in the latter 
because it would be full daylight before the tide would 
creep in to wash away the tell-tale footprints. Paul 
Cremarre’s presence there—his footmarks leading 
away from the water to the spot where he had col¬ 
lapsed and died! Cremarre with a bronze key in his 
hand, and the old maniac’s book of tide tables— 
Cremarre had made an attempt to get the money after 
the old man had been there, and something, God knew 
what, had done him down instead. It must have been 
subsequent to the old man’s visit, for Marlin was 
now in his room—he, Captain Francis Newcombe, had 
listened at the fool’s door when he had returned long 
after three o’clock from that trip to the old hut in 
the woods—and three o’clock was past the hour of low 
water, and old Marlin had appeared to be quietly 
asleep, which under no circumstances would he have 
been had he been conscious of the loss of his key and 


254 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

book. There were a dozen theories that would logi¬ 
cally reconstruct the scene—but none of them mat¬ 
tered. It was the existing fact that mattered. Cre- 
marre, hidden himself, might, and very probably had, 
watched the old maniac at work; afterwards, whether 
the old man had lost the key and book from the 
pocket of his dressing gown as it flapped around him 
and Cremarre had found them, or Paul Cremarre, 
than whom there was no craftier thief in Christen¬ 
dom, had succeeded in purloining them, again mat¬ 
tered not a whit. What mattered was that there was 
only one place now where the old maniac’s secret de¬ 
pository could be—only one. And he, Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe, now knew where that one place was. 

And yet again he laughed—loud in his evil joy, 
vauntingly in his triumph. It was his now! There 
was no longer anything to mar his plans. Nemesis 
was dead! No haunting thing to strike any more 
out of the darkness and drive him back, with bared 
teeth, against the wall, to make of him little better 
than a cornered rat. Why shouldn’t he laugh now 
—at man, or devil, or Heaven, or hell! He was 
master —as Shadow Varne had always been master. 
He tossed the bronze key up in the air and caught it 
again with deft, yet savage grasp. The hiding place 
was found. There was only a keyhole to look for 
now. A keyhole ... a keyhole. . . . Mad mirth 
caught up the words and flung them in jocular song 
hither and thither within his brain. A keyhole . . . 
a keyhole. . . . 

“You’d raise your cursed voice to bawl at Shadow 
Varne, would you, Paul Cremarre?” he cried. “Well, 
damn you—thanks!” 


THE BRONZE KEY 


255 

Just the turning of a key in a lock! But the water 
was too high now—the tide was coming in. A key 
wasn’t any good to-night—the place wasn’t locked 
only by a key, it was time-locked by the tide. He 
snatched up the little book and consulted it hurriedly. 
It would be low tide to-morrow morning at a quarter 
past three. Well, to-morrow morning, then, since he 
couldn’t have a look at the place to-night. He could 
well afford the time now! And meanwhile with the 
key gone, the old maniac couldn’t do anything—except 
raise an infernal row, and become even a little more 
maniacal, if that were possible. Too bad! But then, 
the poor old man probably wouldn’t live very long 
anyhow! And then, besides, quite apart from the tide 
to-night, there was Runnells, who— 

He swept the articles from the table suddenly back 
into his pockets. Where was Runnells? What the 
devil was keeping the man? He should have been 
back by now! 

Captain Francis Newcombe switched off the light, 
and, v/alking quickly from the room now, closed the 
door behind him. And now he frowned in impatient 
irritation as he made his way along the verandah of 
the boathouse and down to the shore* Confound 
Runnells, anyway! Where was he? It was already 
beginning to show colour in the east, and the darkness 
was giving way to a grey, shadowy half-light. In 
another quarter of an hour the dawn would have 
broken. There was no time to spare! 

He stood for a moment staring toward the fringe 
of trees that hid the path to the house. There was 
still no sign of Runnells. With a quick, muttered ex¬ 
ecration at the man’s tardiness, he turned abruptly and 


256 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

began to make his way in under the boathouse. At 
the spot where Paul Cremarre’s body lay the slope 
of the shore was very gentle, and the incoming tide 
would therefore cover the ground the more rapidly. 
He had forgotten that. Paul Cremarre had only been 
four or five yards away from what was then the wa¬ 
ter’s edge when he had left him, and unless he wanted 
to find the body floating around now, he had better— 

He halted short in his tracks, but close to the 
water now. His heart had stopped. What was that? 
Involuntarily now he staggered back a pace. It wasn’t 
light enough to see distinctly; it was only light enough 
to see shadowy things, things that suddenly moved 
in the gloom before him, things that, from the w r ater, 
waved sinuously in the air—like slimy, monstrous, 
snake-like tentacles—that reached out and crept and 
wriggled upon the shore itself. The place was alive 
with them, swarming with them. They were ten¬ 
tacles! They were feeling out, feeling out every¬ 
where, and—God, were they feeling out for him! He 
sprang sharply backward as a light breath of air 
seemed to have fanned his cheek. He heard a faint 
pat upon the earth as of something soft striking there; 
he saw a slithering thing, like a reptile in shape and 
movement, swaying this way and that as though in 
search of something upon the spot where he had 
stood. 

He felt his face blanch. He drew back still farther. 
A dark blotch lay near the water’s edge—that was 
Paul Cremarre’s body. And now one of those sinu¬ 
ous, creeping tentacles, a grey, viscous, clutching arm, 
fell athwart the body—and the body seemed to move 
—slowly—jerkily as though it struggled itself to es- 


THE BRONZE KEY 257 

cape from some foul and loathsome touch—toward 
the water. 

Captain Francis Newcombe gazed now, a fascina¬ 
tion of horror seizing upon him. Two curious spots 
showed out there in the water. Not lights—they 
weren’t lights—but they were in a sense luminous. 
They seemed to stare, full of insatiable lust, gibbous, 
protuberant from out of the midst of that waving, 
feeling, slithering forest of tentacled arms. 

He swept his hand across his eyes. Was he mad? 
Was this some ugly fantasy that he was dreaming— 
and that in his sleep was making his blood run cold? 
Look! Look! Those two luminous spots were com¬ 
ing nearer and nearer—eyes, baleful, hungry—eyes, 
that’s what they were! They were coming closer to 
the shore—to the body of Paul Cremarre. A dripping 
tentacle, waving in the air, swayed forward, and 
dropped and curled and fastened around the body— 
that was the second one there. 

It was too light now! The sight was horror—but 
the fascination of horror held him motionless. There 
was no head to the thing, just a monstrous, formless 
continuation of abhorrent bulk from which were 
thrust out those huge, repulsive tentacles—from which 
was thrust out another now to fasten itself, for pur¬ 
chase, upon one of the small, outer concrete piers that 
rose from the deeper water beyond. 

And again the body of Paul Cremarre moved. And 
there was a sound. The gurgling of water. 

It had a beak like a parrot’s beak, and the mandibles 
opened now—wide apart—to uncover a cavernous 
mouth. And the eyes and the tentacles of the thing 
began to retreat from the shore. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


258 

The gurgle of water again. 

A white shirt sleeve showed for an instant—and 
was gone. 

A splashing. A commotion. A swirl. An eddy. 

Then in the shadowy light a placid surface, the 
looming central pier of the boathouse, the little piers, 
the roof above—the commonplace. 

A voiffe spoke at his side—Runnells’: 

“Where’s Paul Cremarre?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s handkerchief, with 
apparent nonchalance, went to his face. It wiped 
away beads of sweat. 

“I don’t know what you’d call the thing,” he said 
casually. “The scientists seem to refer to the species 
under a variety of names—you may take your choice, 
Runnells, between poulpe, devil fish and octopus. It’s 
a bit of an unpleasant specimen whatever name you 
choose. It’s gone now—and so has Paul Cremarre.” 

“An octopus!” Runnells stared through the dim 
light toward the water. “You mean it—it got Paul?” 

“Yes,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. He re¬ 
turned the handkerchief to his pocket. 

“Gawd!” said Runnells in a shaky whisper. “An 
octopus! I know what that is. The thing’s got suck¬ 
ers that would tear the flesh off you. That’s where 
those marks on Paul’s face must have come from. He 
must have had a fight with it before we found him.” 

“les,” said Captain Francis Newcombe, “he un¬ 
doubtedly did. It’s rather obvious now that he had 
just managed in a dying effort to break loose and 
reach the shore. And the brute was crafty enough to 
know, I fancy, and waited for the tide to come farther 
in to bag its prey. Anyway, you won’t need those 


THE BRONZE KEY 


259 

spades you’ve got there now—and incidentally, Run- 
nells, where the devil have you been all this time?” 

Runnells was swabbing at his brow. 

“It—it knocked me flat, that did,” he said with a 
sudden, wild rush of words; “but it ain’t any worse 
than what’s happened up there. Hell’s broke loose— 
just hell—that’s what! The old bird’s gone and done 
it. Shot himself, he has.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s hand reached out and 
closed in a quick, tight grip on the other’s shoulder. 

“Come out of here!” he said abruptly. He led 
Runnells out beyond the overhang of the verandah, 
and in the better light stared into the man’s face. 
“Now, then, what’s this you say? Old Marlin’s shot 
himself?” 

“By accident,” said Runnells, nodding his head ex¬ 
citedly; “leastways, that’s what I suppose you’d call 
it.” 

“Dead?” demanded Captain Francis Newcombe. 

Runnells laughed nervously. 

“You’re bloody well right he’s dead!” he said 
gruffly. “Dead as a herring! That’s what the row’s 
all about.” 

“Tell your story!” ordered Captain Francis New¬ 
combe shortly. 

“Well, when I went up there from here,” said 
Runnells, “I saw the house all lit up, and the blacks 
all running around, and the whole place humming. 
And they spotted me, some of the servants did, and 
all began talking at once about the old bird having 
shot himself, and they seemed to take it for granted 
that I knew too—d’ye twig?—that I’d been in the 
house, of course, and had got up and dressed, having 


26 o 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


heard the shots. The only play I had was to keep 
my mouth shut and let ’em think so—and listen to 
them. It seems, as near as they knew, that his nibs 
had been asleep, and suddenly wakes up and goes blind 
off his top, and runs upstairs with a revolver, and 
goes to Locke’s room, and opens the door and begins 
shooting, and all the time he’s screaming out at the 
top of his lungs, ‘you’re one of them, you’re one of 
them; but I’ll kill you before you open it!’ Locke 
must have had his nerve with him. Anyway, he 
jumped out of bed and tried to get the revolver away 
from the old fool. By this time the whole house was 
up, and some of the black servants took a hand by 
trying to collar his nibs, but Marlin breaks away from 
them somehow, and runs for the stairs like a mad 
bull. He must have tripped going down, or knocked 
his arm, or something, anyway his revolver goes off 
and when they got to him he was at the bottom of 
the stairs with a hole in his head.” Runnells paused 
for a moment, but, eliciting no comment, went on 
again: “Well, while I was getting all this information 
that I was supposed to know, Locke comes out on the 
verandah and spots me. ‘I’ve just been to your room, 
Runnells,’ he says. ‘Do you know where Captain 
Newcombe is?’ And I says, ‘No, sir, I don’t; least- 
ways,’ I says, ‘I’ve been too excited to notice.’ Then 
he says I’d better try and find you, and that gave me 
the first chance to get away and cop these spades. I 
sneaked around through the woods at the back of the 
house with them.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe lighted a cigarette. 

“Sneak back with them, then, the same way,” he 
' said calmly. 


THE BRONZE KEY 


261 


“Right!” said Runnells. 

“Now!” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “And 
you haven’t been able to find me.” 

“Right!” said Runnells again, and started off at a 
run. 

Captain Francis Newcombe began to walk leisurely 
across the beach toward the path leading to the house. 
He puffed leisurely and with immense content at his 
cigarette. In the light of certain knowledge possessed 
by himself alone, the whole thing was as clear as day¬ 
light. The old maniac had wakened up, and in some 
way had discovered for the first time that his key 
and book were gone—that had set him off. It was 
rather rough on Locke to have been selected as the 
thief! But there was no accounting for what a luna¬ 
tic would do! 

He was chuckling to himself now. An explanation 
of his absence from the house at this hour? It was 
too simple! Polly would substantiate it. Polly’s 
scruples about keeping silent were now useless—to 
him! He had thought the old madman must have 
telephoned from the boathouse. He had got up and 
dressed, and gone down to see—and, of course, had 
seen nothing! 

He flicked his cigarette away. And now he laughed 
—laughed with the same evil joy, the same savage 
triumph, but magnified a hundredfold now, with which 
he had laughed a little while ago in the boathouse 
back there. Only the laughter was silent now—it 
was his soul that rocked with mirth. The gods were 
very good! The black of the night had brought a 
dawn of incomparable radiance! That was poetic! 
Ha, ha! Well, why not poetry? He was in exquisite 


262 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


humour. It was like wine in his head—that, too, was 
poetry, wasn’t it?—somebody had said it was—or 
something like it. Nor God, nor man, nor the devil 
could stay him now! He had only to be circumspect 
in the house of death—and help himself. Almost 
poetry again! Excellent! The old fool dead! Even 
the trouble and annoyance of staging an accident was 
now removed. The old fool dead—with his secret. 
They would hunt a long time—and it would forever 
be a secret. 

Except to Shadow Varne! 


Ill— 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 

H OWARD LOCKE stood leaning with his 
shoulder against one of the verandah pillars. 
Behind him, in the house, he was conscious of 
a sort of hushed commotion. Out on the lawn in 
front of him little groups of negroes stood staring 
at the house with strained, uplifted faces, or moved 
across his line of vision in frightened, pathetically 
humorou 9 efforts to keep an unobtrusive silence— 
walking on tiptoes in their bare feet on the velvet 
lawn. Queer how the black faces were mellowed into 
softer colours in the early morning light! 

Mr. Marlin was dead. Locke’s eyes half closed; 
his lips drew together, compressed in a hard line. 
Strange! In one sense, he seemed still dazed with 
the events of the last hour; in another sense, his mind 
was brutally clear. He was dazed because even yet 
it seemed impossible to grasp the fact that so sorrow¬ 
ful, and dire, and unrecallable a tragedy was an actual, 
immutable, existent truth. It was not that Mr. Mar¬ 
lin in a sudden paroxysm of demented frenzy should 
have done what he had—even to the extent that the 
old man’s attack should have been directed against 
his, Locke’s, person. He could quite understand that. 
In the aquarium, only a few hours before, the old 
man had used identically the same words that he had 
shouted as he had burst in the bedroom door and 

had begun firing wildly: “You are one of them! . . . 

263 


264 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

You are one of them!” And then, apart from what 
had transpired in the aquarium, there had been the 
shock of the attack on the path almost immediately 
afterward. The old man had not lost his money, 
but he had gone back to the house—he, Locke, had 
seen that too—and, instead of sleeping, these things 
had probably preyed and preyed upon his mind until 
he had lost the little reason that had been left to 
him and a homicidal mania had developed. All that 
was quite easily understood. As Polly had said, the 
specialist had predicted it if the old man became over¬ 
excited—and Miss Marlin had feared it. It was not 
this phase, so logically explainable, of what had hap¬ 
pened that affected him still in that dazed, numbed 
way; it was the fact, so much harder to understand, 
that quick and sudden, in the passing of a moment, 
old Mr. Marlin was gone. 

He straightened up a little, easing the position of 
his shoulder against the pillar. On the other hand, 
from an entirely different aspect, that of the conse¬ 
quences as applied to his own course of action, his 
mind had been clear, irrevocable, settled in its purpose 
almost from the instant that—first to reach the old 
madman’s side—he had found Mr. Marlin dead. It 
was the end! He was waiting now for Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe to return—from wherever the man had 
taken himself to. 

The sight of the awed, grief-stricken figures on the 
lawn stirred him suddenly with keen emotion. The 
girls were upstairs in Dora Marlin’s room together 
and— He wrenched his mind away from the course 
toward which it was trending. For the moment it 
would do neither them nor himself any good; for 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 265 

the moment he was waiting for—Captain Francis 
Newcombe. 

A queer smile came and twisted at his lips. Was 
it defeat—or victory? 

The smile passed. His face became grave again. 
There was Captain Francis Newcombe now—at the 
far edge of the lawn. 

The man was strolling leisurely toward the house, 
then, suddenly pausing for an instant, he as suddenly 
broke into a run, elbowing his way unceremoniously 
through the groups of negroes, and, reaching the 
steps, covered them in a bound to the verandah. 

“I say!” he burst out breathlessly as he halted be¬ 
fore Locke. “Whatever is the matter? This hour in 
the morning and every light on in the house—and all 
those negroes out there?” 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Locke quietly. 
“Come in here.” He led the way to the French win¬ 
dow by which he had found entry into the house a 
few hours before, and passed through into the room 
beyond. 

Captain Francis Newcombe followed. 

“I say!” he repeated, closing the glass door with a 
push behind him. “What’s up, old man?” 

“Mr. Marlin is dead,” said Locke briefly. 

“Dead!” Captain Francis Newcombe stared in¬ 
credulously. “Why, he wasn’t ill—at least not in that 
way. I don’t understand.” 

It was a small room, a sort of adjunct to the library 
which led off from it toward the rear of the house. 
Howard Locke’s fingers were aimlessly turning the 
leaves of a book which lay on the table in the centre 
of the room, and beside which he was standing now. 


266 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“A belief that he was being followed, that some 
one was trying to take his money away from him, 
turned him from a harmless lunatic into a dangerous 
madman,” Locke said slowly. “He seemed to believe 
that I was, to use his own words, ‘one of them,’ and 
he tried to shoot me in my room. The household was 
aroused. The servants came. We tried to subdue 
him. But he broke away from us then, and in running 
down the stairs fell, I think, and his revolver went 
off in his hand, killing him instantly.” 

“Good God!” said Captain Francis Newcombe 
heavily. “That’s awful! And that poor girl—Miss 
Marlin!” 

“Yes,” said Howard Locke, his fingers still playing 
with the leaves of the book. 

Captain Francis Newcombe appeared to be greatly 
agitated. He took out his cigarette case, opened and 
shut it several times, and finally restored it to his 
pocket with its contents untouched. 

“It’s ghastly!” he ejaculated; and then in a slower, 
more meditative tone: “But with the shock of it over, 
I can’t say I’m particularly surprised. He struck me 
as acting in a more than usually peculiar manner all 
day yesterday, and especially last night, or, rather, this 
morning—as a matter of fact, it was on account of 
Mr. Marlin himself that I was out of the house when 
it happened. He telephoned Polly about four o’clock 
this morning and nearly frightened her to death. She 
came to my room in a pitiful state of distress. He 
told her her mother was dead. God knows why— 
except that it shows how mad he was. From Polly’s 
description of the conversation during which she had 
distinctly heard the sound of waves and the slam of 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 267 

a door in the wind, I decided that he must have tele¬ 
phoned from somewhere outside. The only place I 
could think of was the boathouse. If the man was as 
bad as that, I was afraid something might happen 
to him, so I dressed and went out. It is obviously 
unnecessary to say that I did not find him. Polly and 
I both decided, on Miss Marlin’s account, to say 
nothing about it, but I can see nothing to be gained 
now, in view of what has happened, by keeping silent.” 

“No; there could be nothing gained by it now,” 
agreed Locke a little monotonously. “As you imply, 
it is only cumulative evidence of the man’s state of 
mind just prior to his death.” 

“Exactly!” nodded Captain Francis Newcombe 
gravely. “But, after all, that is apart from the im¬ 
mediate present. I suppose you have already seen 
to what you could here in the house, but there still 
must be many things to do.” 

Howard Locke closed the book, and stepped a little 
away from the table, a little nearer the other. 

“There are,” he said with quiet deliberation. “But 
there is one thing in particular for you to do. The 
mail came over from the mainland very late last night. 
It naturally hasn’t been touched this morning and is 
still in there”—he motioned toward the door leading 
from the rear of the room—“on the library table. 
There is a letter there for you, a very urgent one, 
demanding your instant return to London.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s eyes narrowed almost 
imperceptibly—but his voice was a drawl: 

“I don’t think I quite understand. May I ask how 
you happen to know the contents of the letter?” 

“I am speaking in a purely suggestive sense,” Locke 


268 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


answered, his voice hardening a little. “There is no 
letter for you that I know of. I am suggesting a 
plausible explanation which you can make to Miss 
Marlin —and Miss Wickes —for leaving this place at 
once.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe stiffened, but his voice 
still retained its drawl. 

“I am tempted to believe that insanity is infec¬ 
tious,” he said; “either that, or perhaps my own in¬ 
telligence is sadly astray this morning. I have neither 
the desire nor the intention to leave here, and espe¬ 
cially at a time such as this when I might possibly 
be of even a little assistance to those who have been 
so hospitable to me, and so I do not require any excuse, 
however plausible or ingenious, for going away.” 

Locke’s eyes rested appraisingly for a long moment 
on the other’s cool, composed, suave face. Well, was 
it any cooler, any more self-possessed than his own? 
What of passion that was boiling within did not show 
on the surface! 

“Nevertheless,” he said steadily, “that is the excuse 
you will give. One of the motor boats is going over 
to the mainland in a little while, and you are going on 
her. I have already had your baggage—and Runnells’ 
—put on board.” 

“You— what?” The red was suddenly in Captain 
Francis Newcombe’s face. He took a quick step for¬ 
ward, his hands clenched. “My baggage sent out of 
the house—by your orders!” he said hoarsely. 
“You’ve gone a bit too far now, my man, and you’ll 
explain yourself—and explain yourself damned quick! 
Out with it! What’s the meaning of this?” 

Locke had not moved. His eyes had not left the 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 269 

other’s face. There was something strangely tempt¬ 
ing about that face; it induced an almost uncontrolla¬ 
ble impulse to mark it, to batter it, to wreck it with 
a rain of blows that would not cease until physical 
exhaustion intervened and one could strike no more. 
And yet his hands hung idly at his sides. 

“Yes”—Locke’s voice was not raised—“I will tell 
you the meaning of it. You are going for two reasons. 
The first is because you are morally responsible for 
Mr. Marlin’s death; and the second is because you 
are —what you are —and as such, from the moment 
you say good-bye to her here, you are going out of 
Polly’s life forever.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe came still a step 
nearer. 

Locke’s eyes had not left the other’s face. He read 
a cold, ugly glitter in the gaze that held on his; he 
saw the curious whitening of the other’s lips—and a 
knotted fist suddenly drawn back to strike. And with 
a lightning movement Locke caught the other’s wrist 
and flung the blow aside. 

“Don’t do that!” he said in a dead tone. “God 
knows, it’s hard enough to keep my hands off you 
as it is; but what is between you and me is not meas¬ 
ured, or in any way altered by a brawl—and besides 
I cannot brawl here in this house where Mr. Marlin 
lies dead, and where there is already distress enough.” 

For a moment Captain Francis Newcombe did not 
speak; then abruptly he began to laugh, and, stepping 
over to a chair at the end of the table, flung himself 
nonchalantly into it. 

“Upon my soul, Locke,” he said coolly, “what I 
said at first in jest, I believe now must be true. I 


270 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

believe you’ve gone completely off your head. I’d like 
to hear why you think I am morally responsible for 
Mr. Marlin’s death; and, particularly, I’d like to know 

what—” ' , TyU, 

“I want to get this over,” said Locke, with a set 
face. “You are clever. If it appeals to a certain 
sense of morbid vanity in you, that they say all crimi¬ 
nals possess, I grant at once that you are as clever a 
scoundrel, and as miserable and inhuman and unscrupu¬ 
lous a one, as ever blasphemed the image in which 
God made him.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe strained upward from 
the chair, his lips working—but Locke stood over him 
now and pushed him back. 

“Don’t get up!” he said with savage curtness. 
“You are going to hear more than that before I am 
through. I said you were clever—but your cleverness 
will do you no good here. This is the end, New¬ 
combe. You took a child out of the slums of London 

bought her in some unholy fashion, I imagine, from 
a woman named Mrs. Wickes; you sent the child out 
of England to America, and educated her in a school, 
especially selected I also imagine, where she would 
be brought into intimate contact with, and form her 
friendships amongst, the daughters of wealthy Amer¬ 
icans of high social position. Why? In the light of 
what has happened, the answer is plain enough: That 
you might use her introduction into these homes as 

an entree for yourself to further your own criminal 
purposes.” 

Locke paused. 

A cold sneer had gathered on Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s lips. 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 271 

“You employed the word ‘imagine’ on both counts,” 
he said. “I congratulate you.” 

“Quite so!” said Locke icily. “I may even employ 
it again. I am not imagining, however, when I say 
that you received a letter from Polly telling you that 
Mr. Marlin had half a million dollars in cash here 
on this island, and—” 

“Did Polly tell you that?” demanded Captain Fran¬ 
cis Newcombe sharply. 

“Innocently—yes,” Locke answered. “And in her 
letter she also told you ‘all about everything here,’ 
to use her own words, which could not help but em¬ 
brace the fact that Mr. Marlin was not right in his 
mind—yet, strangely enough, in the smoking room of 
the liner, you will perhaps remember, you had had 
no idea of any such thing, and even expressed anxiety 
for the safety of your ward.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe was painstakingly pol¬ 
ishing the finger nails of one hand on the palm of the 
other now. 

“One might possibly conceive a man to be eccentric 
and attribute his idiosyncrasies to that cause—without 
thought of classifying him as a raving lunatic,” he 
observed in a bored voice. 

Locke shrugged his shoulders. 

“Perhaps there is a better explanation of your mis¬ 
take,” he said evenly. “You did not, at that time, 
have the slightest idea that I, too, would be one of 
the party on this island.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe looked up from his 
finger nails. 

“Did you?” he inquired softly. 

“Yes,” said Locke curtly. 


272 THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 

“Ah!” Captain Francis Newcombe, with eyes half 
closed now, studied Locke’s face for a full minute be¬ 
fore he spoke again. “I am becoming rather curious 
as to just who you are, Locke,” he murmured finally. 

“You ought to know,” Locke responded grimly. 
“I imagine it was you who went through my papers 
that night in my cabin.” 

“That is the third time,” suggested Captain Francis 
Newcombe, “that you have said ‘imagine.’ ” 

“Yes.” Locke smiled without humour. “I happen 
to know, however, that from the moment of your 
arrival here Mr. Marlin became more and more ob¬ 
sessed with the belief that he was being watched and 
followed. I know from his own statement that he 
rather cunningly laid a false trail—to an old hut in 
the woods behind the house, wasn’t it, Newcombe? 
And it is rather conclusive evidence, I should say, that 
the man who followed that trail was the man who 
was watching Mr. Marlin. I saw you coming from 
that direction at three o’clock this morning. You were 
unsuccessful, of course; but you are none the less, as I 
said before, morally responsible for Mr. Marlin’s 
death.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe leaned back in his chair, 
and laughed softly, insolently, contemptuously. 

“As I understand the indictment,” he said coolly, 
“it is to the effect that I left London for the purpose 
of coming here and stealing some money that I knew 
a madman had hidden. The evidence against me is 
from beginning to end purely circumstantial, and most 
of it is admittedly imaginative. The one ‘damning’ 
fact adduced is that I was seen coming from some¬ 
where at three o’clock this morning. This is a bit 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 273 

thick, Locke—coming from you!” His voice was be¬ 
ginning to lose its suavity. “You don’t imagine , do 
you, that any such ‘case’ as that would hold water 
for an instant in any court of law?” 

“No,” said Locke quietly; “I know it wouldn’t. I 
quite agree with you there.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s face for an instant 
held a look of puzzlement, as though he had not heard 
aright—then it stiffened into ugly menace. 

“I think you need a lesson!” He spoke from be¬ 
tween set lips. “This is no longer merely ridiculous, 
or absurd, or cracked-brained. It is monstrous! 

“Again I agree with you.” Locke’s voice was low 
now, rasping his words. It is so monstrous that, 
strong as the circumstantial evidence against you is, 

I would not have been able to credit it had I not 
had a basis for belief that permitted of no denial. 

I know you for exactly what you are. I know that 
you are a criminal, that you are one by profession, 
that you have no other profession, that you are with¬ 
out conscience, inhuman, ruthless, a fiend who would 

do honour to hell itself.” 

“By God!” Captain Francis Newcombe with livid 

face surged up from the chair to his feet. 

But Locke’s face, too, was white now with passion, 
as with a suddenly outflung hand he thrust the other 

away. 

“I am not through yet,” he said. “Denial, any atti¬ 
tude of pretended righteous indignation, or any other 
attitude that may suggest itself to you as the best 
mask to adopt, is hardly worth your while when at¬ 
tempted with one who once very narrowly escaped 
being one of your victims—with a man who once, be- 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


274 

cause you feared he possessed the information that 
you know now he does possess, you tried to murder 
with cold-blooded deliberation.” 

“You?” Captain Francis Newcombe, with head 
thrust forward, his eyes narrowed, searched every 
lineament of Locke’s face. 

“Look well!” Locke spoke with scarcely any move¬ 
ment of the lips, in a cold, dead way, without inflexion 
in his voice. “Look well! It will do you little good. 
You never saw my face before. Shall I tell you where 
I first saw yours? It was in a thicket one night, a 
night during the great German offensive. There were 
four men there. Three of them sat together with 
their backs against the trees; the other lay face down 
on the ground a little distance away. A stray shell 
burst nearby. One of the three, a Frenchman, called 
it a straggler. ‘Like us,’ you said. I am the fourth 
straggler.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe drew slightly back. He 
made no other movement. He said nothing. His 
eyes remained riveted on Locke’s face. 

“I was almost done in that night,” said Locke. 
“I’d had two days and two nights of it. I did not 
hear all vou said—what particular place it was, for 
instance, that had been robbed. I heard of the share 
that each of you had played in the affair. I saw 
your faces. I heard the Frenchman, a self-admitted 
crook, hail you as a greater than himself—yes, as a 
greater even than any criminal in all France. I heard 
you check him with your name on his lips. I heard 
him call your attention to my presence there. I heard 
you say you had not forgotten—and in a flare of light 
I saw you with your rifle across your knees, its muzzle 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 275 

only a few feet away from my head. Then in the 
ensuing darkness I was lucky enough to be able to 
wriggle silently back a few yards in among the trees 
—and a second later I saw the flash of your rifle shot.” 

Locke stopped. His lips were dry. He touched 
them with the tip of his tongue. 

The two men stood eying each other. Neither 
moved. 

Locke spoke again: 

“As I crawled out of that thicket I swore that I 
would pay you for that shot if it took all my life to 
bring you to account. I did not know your name, I 
did not know where you came from or where you 
lived; but I knew your face—and I was sure, as we 
are sometimes strangely sure of the future, that some 
time, in some place, you and I would meet again. 
But it was four years before we did; and in those four 
years, during which I have travelled a great deal on 
my father’s business, no man’s face, in a crowd, or 
merely in passing on the street, whether here or 
abroad, but that I searched in the hope that it might 
be yours. And then I saw you—in London—just a 
few days before we sailed. I followed you to your 
apartment, and I saw the other two—Runnells, and 
the Frenchman, whose name I discovered was Paul 
Cremarre. I secured an introduction to you at your 
club, and I learned from you that you were sailing 
within a day or so on a certain ship. I told you I 
was sailing on the same ship. Within an hour after 
I had left you at the club, I did two things: I booked 
passage on that ship; and I engaged a man who was 
recommended to me as one of the best private de¬ 
tectives in England. With the knowledge that you 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


276 

were a criminal, it was only a question of a short 
time then before the detective would unearth your 
record, or that you would be caught in some new 
venture; and meanwhile, leaving him to work up your 
‘history,’ I crossed with you, and suggested the yacht¬ 
ing trip as I did not intend to let you out of my sight 
again until you were trapped. And I think, but for 
the fact that you have been told now, that would 
have been accomplished even more quickly than I had 
expected. At one of the stops that I purposely made 
on the way down the coast on the Talofa, I received 
a letter from the detective mailed in London the day 
after we sailed. He said that developments had been 
such that he was working in conjunction with Scotland 
Yard, and that he expected to be able to send me a 
very satisfactory report within a day or so.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe took his cigarette case 
from his pocket for the second time—but now he 
calmly lighted a cigarette. 

“And so,” he said smoothly, “just at the moment 
when, after four long years, you are about to reap 
the fruits of your labour, you tell me to go. Where? 
Into the trap—waiting for me over there on the 
mainland?” 

“No,” said Locke bitterly. “Where you will; you 
and Runnells—and Paul Cremarre. We’ll have no 
more trouble from any of you here.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe paused suddenly in the 
act of lifting his cigarette to his lips. 

“This Paul Cremarre you speak of,” he said, “what 
makes you think he is here?” 

“Because I expected him to be here,” said Locke 
shortly. “He was one of the three of you. He could 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 277 

not very well form part of your retinue as Runnells 
did. He would have to come separately. I know he 
is here because I saw a man wearing a mask last night. 
I have reason to know it was not you; and since I 
superintended the packing of Runnells’ baggage and 
have also seen Runnells himself, I know—for reasons 
that need not be explained—that it was not Runnells.” 

“I see,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “So it 
must have been this Paul Cremarre—since the three 
would be here together. I regret that I was not fortu¬ 
nate enough to have the advantage of your viewpoint, 
even though you honour me with the credit of having 
arranged all these little details. And so, at the mo¬ 
ment of your supreme success we are to go—we three. 
May I ask why this change of heart?” 

Howard Locke reached into his pocket and took 
out a faded envelope that was torn at one end. 

“These,” he said, his voice rasping hoarsely again, 
“are Polly’s papers—her birth certificate, the mar¬ 
riage certificate of her parents—the proof of perhaps 
the most contemptible and scoundrelly crime you have 
ever committed; I say ‘perhaps’ because there may 
be lower depths of beastliness and inhumanity of which 
only a mind such as yours could conceive. You know 
where these papers were found. Besides using Polly 
as your cat’s-paw and your tool, making her innocence 
serve your vile ends, you robbed her of her claim to 
even honest parentage!” His face had grown white 
to the lips, his voice was almost out of control. “And 
yet it is Polly —Polly Gray —who is saving you now! 
I have no change of heart. I never, even on that 
night in the thicket, wanted to square my account with 
you as I do now. But for Polly’s sake I cannot do it. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


278 

I love her more than I hate you. I want to save her 
from the sorrow and distress she would suffer if she 
knew the truth of what has happened here; and above 
all I want to save her from the misery and shame of 
having her name publicly connected with yours were 
you brought as a common criminal to stand in the 
dock. And so you are going—where I do not know. 
Not London, or anywhere else, as Captain Francis 
Newcombe any more—for you would no longer dare 
do that with the police at last hot on the investigation 
of your career. But you are going out of her life 
never to contaminate it again. And this is the bar¬ 
gain that I make with you—that she shall never hear 
from you again. I compound no felony with you. 
I have no power to hold you, even were I an officer 
of the law, without specific evidence of a specific crime. 
That such evidence will inevitably be forthcoming is 
certain, but for the moment there is no warrant for 
your arrest. You will make the excuse for your de¬ 
parture as I have suggested—and later on a brief 
notice of the death of Captain Francis Newcombe in 
some distant place will account for your continued 
silence, and remove you out of her life.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe blew a smoke ring in 
the air and watched it meditatively. 

“Excellent!” he murmured. “And if I refuse? 
To save Polly, you would have to call your blood¬ 
hounds off.” 

“It is too late for that,” said Locke sternly. “And 
even if it were not, it would be better that Polly should 
suffer even the shame of publicity than that you should 
remain in any way in touch with her life.” 

“I see!” murmured Captain Francis Newcombe 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 279 

again. “But with exposure as inevitable as you say 
it is, it is too bad that Polly should—er—nevertheless 
suffer her share of this shameful publicity whether I 
go or not.” 

“You fence well,” said Locke with a grim smile. 
“Scotland Yard sooner or later will know, but they 
will not make public what they know until they have 
laid hands upon their man. It is your freedom that 
is at stake. I told you I did not think you would 
venture to return to London.” 

“Locke,” said Captain Francis Newcombe softly, 
“permit me to return the compliment—but also with 
reservations. You are clever—but having overlooked 
one little detail, as so often happens even to the clev¬ 
erest of us all, your scheme as regards keeping Polly 
in ignorance of my unworthiness falls to the ground. 
That envelope you hold in your hand—I was wonder¬ 
ing—it simply occurred to me—how Polly was to be 
informed that—er—her name is—I think you said— 
Gray.” 

“I had not overlooked it,” Locke answered evenly. 
“Polly’s parentage is a matter that precedes your en¬ 
try into her life by many years; it is a matter that is 
logically within the knowledge of this Mrs. Wickes. 
I shall cable London to-day. There will be means 
of securing Mrs. Wickes’ confession on this point. 
These papers will come from her.” 

“Ah, yes!” said Captain Francis Newcombe gently. 
“Quite so! Perhaps, after all, / am the one who over¬ 
looked detail. But if by any chance this Mrs. Wickes 
could not be found—what then?” 

Locke studied the other’s face. It was impassive; 
no, not quite that—there was something that lurked 


28 o the four stragglers 

around the corners of the man’s mouth—like a hint 
of mockery. 

“In that case,” he said steadily, “I should have 
done my best to save her from the knowledge of what 
you are, for I should have to tell her; but meanwhile 
you will have gone from here, and, as I have already 
said, she will be saved the brutal notoriety that would 
attach to her wherever she went, and until she died 
mar her life, if Captain Francis Newcombe’s ‘case’ 
were blazoned abroad from the criminal courts of 
England—and that, in the last analysis, is what really 
matters.” He thrust the envelope abruptly back into 
his pocket, and as abruptly took out his watch and 
looked at it. “I do not want to detain the boat. 
You know where to find Paul Cremarre. Get him, 
and take him with you. Your baggage has been 
searched—so has Runnells’. I do not for a moment 
think you found that which specifically brought you 
to this house. I doubt, indeed, now that Mr. Marlin 
is dead, if it ever will be found by anybody. But in 
so far as you are concerned, assurance will be made 
doubly sure—the three of you will be subjected to a 
personal search before you are landed on the other 
side.” He snapped his watch back into his pocket. 
“Shall I find out if Miss Marlin is able to see you?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe examined the glowing 
tip of his cigarette with every appearance of non¬ 
chalance—but the brain of the man was seething in 
a fury of action. He was beaten—in so far as the 
existence, the entity of a character known as Captain 
Francis Newcombe was concerned—he was beaten. 

. . . This cursed, meddling fool had beaten him. . . . 
Damn that shot that he had missed in the darkness. 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF - 281 

. . . He could not draw his revolver and fire another 
and kill this man—not now. ... To do that here 
would be suicide. . . . And, besides, there was still 
half a million dollars. . . . Quite a sop! . . . Mrs. 
Wickes didn’t count one way or the other—but Paul 
Cremarre—that was awkward. . . . The island must 
be left in quiet and repose in so far as anything per¬ 
taining to the attempted robbery was concerned—an 
incident that with his departure was closed. . . . 
Paul Cremarre must be accounted for. . . . Well, the 
truth was probably the safest, since denial would only 
result in a search for a third man that Locke knew 
had been here. . . . That Locke should think that 
Paul Cremarre had come here as part of the pre¬ 
arranged plan was probably all the better. ... It 
left no lingering doubts. . . . 

He looked up—his eyes cold and steady on Locke. 

“I regret, I shall always regret, that I missed that 
shot,” he said deliberately; “but for whatever satis¬ 
faction it will bring you, I admit now that you have 
beaten me. I agree to your terms. I will go; 
so will Runnells—but I can’t take Paul Cremarre. 
Paul Cremarre is dead. He died this morning. 
A rather horrible death. I found him on the 
shore a little way from the water’s edge, his clothes 
in ribbons—in fact, one of his coat sleeves was com¬ 
pletely torn away and—” 

“The man I was looking for had a white shirt 
sleeve,” said Locke quietly. 

“Well, your search is ended then, if that will give 
you any further satisfaction,” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe gruffly. “His white shirt sleeve was the 
least of it. His face and throat were covered with 


282 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


round, purplish blotches, and the man was absolutely 
mangled. He had the appearance of having been 
crushed —as they say a python crushes a victim in its 
folds. And, damn it, that’s not far from what hap¬ 
pened ! How he had first come into contact with the 
monster I don’t know, but he had been in a fight with 
a gigantic octopus, and had evidently just managed to 
crawl ashore out of the thing’s reach temporarily, and 
had died there.” Captain Francis Newcombe laughed 
unpleasantly. “The reason I know this is because I 
saw the creature—the tide was higher, of course, 
when I found the body—come back and carry off its 
prey. You will pardon me, perhaps, if I do not de¬ 
scribe it in detail. It—er—wasn’t nice.” 

Locke stared at the other for a moment. 

“That’s a rather strange story,” he said slowly. 
“But I can’t see where it would do you any good to lie 
now.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe helped himself to an¬ 
other cigarette, lighted it, and suddenly flung a mock¬ 
ing laugh at Locke. 

“No,” he said, “I’m afraid that’s the trouble—it 
wouldn’t do me any good to lie now. And so I might 
as well tell you, too, that there’s no use sending that 
cable to London about Mrs. Wickes, either. Mrs. 
Wickes is also dead. For reasons best known to my¬ 
self, I did not choose to tell Polly about the woman’s 
death, so I fear now that, lacking that estimable old 
hag’s co-operation in the resurrection of those papers, 
you will have to resort to telling Polly, after all, a 
little something about her cherished guardian. How¬ 
ever, Locke, on the main count, that of notoriety, if it 
depends upon Scotland Yard ever getting their man, 


THE WARP AND THE WOOF 283 

I think I can give you my personal guarantee that she 
will never be—” 

He stopped, and whirled sharply around. 

One half of the French window was swaying inward. 

With a low cry, Locke sprang past the other. 

“Polly!” he cried. 

She was clutching at the edge of the door, her form 
drooping lower and lower as though her support were 
evading her and she could not keep pace with its escape, 
her face a deathly white, her eyes half closed. 

Locke caught her as she fell, gathered her in his 
arms and carried her to a couch. She had fainted. 
As he looked hurriedly around for some means of 
reviving her, Captain Francis Newcombe spoke at his 
elbow. 

“Permit me,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. He 
w*as proffering the water in a flower vase from which 
he had thrown out the flowers. 

Mechanically Locke took it, and began to sprinkle 
the girl’s face. 

“Too bad!” said Captain Francis Newcombe pleas¬ 
antly. “Er—hardly necessary, I fancy, for me to ex¬ 
plain my sudden departure for England to her—what? 
I’ll say au revoir, Locke—merely au revoir. We may 
meet again. Who knows—in another four years! 
And I’ll leave you to make my adieus to Miss Marlin.” 

Locke made no reply. 

The door closed. Captain Francis Newcombe was 
gone. 

Polly stirred now on the couch. Her eyes opened, 
rested for an instant on Locke’s, then circled the room 
in a strange, quick, fascinated way, as though fearful 
of what she might see yet still impelled to look. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


284 

“He—he’s gone?” she whispered. 

“Yes,” Locke answered softly/ “Don’t try to talk, 
Polly.” 

She shook her head. A smile came, bravely forced. 

“I—I saw him from upstairs—on the lawn coming 
toward the house,” she said. “After a little while 
when he did not come in, I went down to find him. I 
did not see him anywhere, and—and I walked along 
the verandah, and I heard your voices in here—heard 
something you were saying. I—I was close to the 
door then—and—somehow I—I couldn’t move—and 
—I wanted to cry out—and I couldn’t. And—and I 
heard—all. And then I felt myself swaying against 
the window, and somehow it gave way and—and—” 

She turned her face away and buried it in her hands. 

Something subconscious in Locke’s mind seemed to 
be at work. He was staring at the French window. 
It had given way. It hadn’t any socket for the bolt 
at top or bottom. Strange it should have been that 
window! He brushed his hand across his eyes. 

“Polly,” he said tenderly, and, kneeling, drew her 
to him until her head lay upon his shoulder. 

And then her tears came. 

And neither spoke. 

But her hand had crept into his and held it tightly, 
like that of a tired and weary child who had lost its 
way—and found it again. 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 


L OW tide at three-fifteen! Captain Francis New- 
combe, in the stern of a small motor boat, drew 
his flashlight from his pocket and consulted his 
watch. Five minutes after two. He nodded his head 
in satisfaction. Just right! And the night was just 
right-—just cloudy enough to make of the moonlight 
an ally rather than a foe. It disclosed the island there 
looming up ahead now perhaps a mile away; it would 
not disclose so diminutive a thing as this little motor 
boat out here on the water creeping in toward the 
shore. 

The boat was barely large enough to accommodate 
the baggage, piled forward, and still leave room for 
Runnells and himself. Also the boat leaked abomina¬ 
bly; also the engine, not only decrepit but in bad re¬ 
pair, was troublesome and spiteful. Captain Francis 
Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. The engine was 
Runnells’ look-out; that was why, as a matter of fact, 
Runnells was here at all. As for the rest, what did 
it matter? The boat had been bought for the pro¬ 
verbial song over there on the mainland, and it was 
good enough to serve its present purpose. 

Again he changed his position, but his eyes narrowed 
now as they fixed on Runnells’ back. Runnells sat 
amidships where he could both nurse the engine and 
manipulate the little steering wheel at his side. Run¬ 
nells was a necessary evil. He, Newcombe, did not 

285 


286 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


know how to run the engine. Therefore he had been 
obliged to bring Runnells along, and therefore Run- 
nells would participate after all in the old fool’s half 
million— temporarily. Afterwards—well there were 
so many things that might happen when Runnells had 
lost his present usefulness! 

Runnells spoke now abruptly. 

“It’s pretty hard to make out anything ashore,” he 
said; “but if we’ve hit it right, we ought to be just 
about heading for a little above the boathouse. Can 
you pick up anything?” 

“Nothing but the outline of the island against the 
sky,” Captain Francis Newcombe answered. “We’re 
too far out yet.” 

Runnells’ sequence of thought was obviously irrele¬ 
vant and disconnected. 

“The blinking swine!” he muttered savagely. 
“Stripped to the pelt and searched, I was—and you, 
too! And kicked ashore like a dog! Gawd, it’s too 
bad they ain’t going to know they’ll have had the trick 
turned on ’em after all! I’d give a good bit of my 
share to see Locke’s face if he knew. He wouldn’t 
think himself such a wily bird maybe!” 

“You’re a bit of a fool, Runnells,” said Captain 
Francis Newcombe shortly. 

His train of thought had been interrupted. Run¬ 
nells had suggested another—Locke. Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s hands clenched suddenly, fiercely in the 
darkness. Locke! Some day, somewhere—but not 
now; not until the days and months, yes even years, if 
necessary, were past and gone, and Locke had for¬ 
gotten Captain Francis Newcombe, and Scotland Yard 
had forgotten—he would meet Locke again. And 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 287 

when that time came there would be no ammunition 
wasted as there had been in that damned thicket that 
night I Locke! The fool doubtless thought that he 
had been completely master of the situation and of 
■Captain Francis Newcombe—even to the extent of 
obliterating Captain Francis Newcombe. Well, per¬ 
haps he had! It was quite true that the clubs of Lon¬ 
don, and, yes, for instance, the charming old Earl of 
Cloverley, would know Captain Francis Newcombe no 
more—but Shadow Fame still lived, and Shadow 
Varne with half a million dollars, even in a new en¬ 
vironment, wherever it might be, did not present so 
drear and uninviting a prospect. Ha, ha! Locke! 
Locke could wait—that was a pleasure the future held 
in store! What counted now, the only thing that 
counted, was getting the money actually into his pos¬ 
session—that, and the assurance that the trail was 
smothered and lost behind him. Well, the former was 
only a matter of, say, an hour or so at the most now; 
and the latter left nothing to be desired, did it? 

He smiled with cool, ironic complacency. Locke, 
having in mind Scotland Yard, would expect him to dis¬ 
appear as effectually and as rapidly as possible. Locke 
ought not to be disappointed! He had disappeared; 
he and Runnells—and, equally important, their lug¬ 
gage. One was sometimes too easily traced by lug¬ 
gage—especially with that infernally efficient checking 
system they employed on the railroads here in Amer¬ 
ica ! It had been rather simple. When Runnells and 
the luggage and himself had all been dumped with 
equal lack of ceremony on a wharf over there on the 
mainland, he had had some of the negroes that were 
loitering around carry the luggage into a sort of 


288 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


storage shed that was on the dock, and, merely saying 
that he would send for his things, he and Runnells had 
unostentatiously allowed themselves to be swallowed 
up by the city. And then they had separated. The 
rest had been a matter of detail—detail in which Run¬ 
nells, with the experience of years, was particularly 
efficient. A purchase here, a purchase there—quite 
innocent purchases in themselves—and later on a man, 
not two men, but one man, a man who did not at all 
look like Runnells, seeing the chance of picking up a 
bargain in a second-hand motor boat somewhere along 
the waterfront, had bought it and gone away with it. 
Later on again, but not until after nightfall, not until 
nine o’clock in fact, he,-Captain Francis Newcombe,-had 
“sent” for the luggage—by the very simple expedient 
of forcing an entry into the shed and loading it into the 
motor boat that Runnells had brought alongside the 
dock. Thereafter, Runnells, the luggage and himself 
had disappeared. Surely Locke ought to be quite sat¬ 
isfied—he, Captain Francis Newcombe, was doing his 
best to guarantee Polly against any unseemly publicity 
in connection with Scotland Yard! And he would con¬ 
tinue to do so! With any kind of luck, he would be 
away from the island here again long before daylight; 
then, say, a few nights’ cruising along the coast, laying 
up by day, and then, as circumstances dictated, by rail¬ 
road, or whatever means were safest, a final— 

With a smothered oath, Captain Francis Newcombe 
snatched at the gunwale of the boat for support, as he 
was thrown suddenly forward from his seat. The 
boat seemed to stagger and recoil as from some vicious 
blow that had been dealt it, and then, as he recovered 
his balance, it surged forward again with an ugly, rend- 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 289 

ing, tearing sound along the bottom planks, rocking 
violently—then an even keel again—and silence. 

Runnells had stopped the engine. 

“My Gawd,” Runnells cried out wildly, “we’ve gone 
and done it 1” 

Captain Francis Newcombe was on his feet peering 
through the darkness to where Runnells, who after 
stopping the engine had sprung forward from his seat, 
was now groping around beneath the pile of luggage. 

“A reef, eh?” said Captain Francis Newcombe 
coolly. “Well, we got over it. We’re in deep water 
again. Carry on!” 

Runnells’ voice came back full of fear. 

“We’re done, we are,” he mumbled. “I stopped the 
engine the minute she hit, but she had too much way 
on her—that’s what carried her over. She’s bashed 
a hole in her the size of your head. She won’t float 
five minutes.” 

“Start her ahead again, then!” Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s voice snapped now. 

“It won’t do any good,” Runnells answered, as he 
stumbled back to his former place. “She won’t any¬ 
where near make the shore—it’s half a mile at least.” 

“Quite so!” said Captain Francis Newcombe. “But, 
in that case, we won’t have so far to swim!” 

The engine started up again. 

“It ain’t as though we didn’t know there was reefs” 
—Runnells was stuttering his words—“only we’d 
figured with our light draft we wouldn’t any more than 
scrape one anyhow, and it wouldn’t do us any harm. 
But she’s rotten, that’s what she is—plain rotten and 
putty! And we must have hit a sharp ledge of rock. 
Gawd, we’ve a foot of water in us now!” 


290 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


“Yes,” said Captain Francis Newcombe calmly. 
“Well, don’t blubber about it! We’ll get ashore— 
and we’ll get away again. There’s half a dozen skiffs 
and things of that sort stowed away in the boathouse 
that are never used now. One of them will never be 
missed, and we can at least get far enough away from 
the island by daybreak not to be seen, and eventually 
we’ll make the other side even if it is a bit of a 
row.” 

“Row!” ejaculated Runnells. 

“Yes,” said Captain Francis Newcombe curtly. 
“Why not—since we have to? We can’t steal a motor 
boat whose loss would be discovered, can we?” 

“My Gawd!” said Runnells. 

The water was sloshing around Captain Francis 
Newcombe’s feet; the boat had already grown notice¬ 
ably sluggish in its movement. He cast an appraising 
eye toward the land. It was almost impossible to 
judge the distance. Runnells had said half a mile a 
few minutes ago. Call it a quarter of a mile now. 
But Runnells was quite right in one respect; it was cer¬ 
tain now that the boat would scuttle before the shore 
was reached. 

“How far can you swim, Runnells?” he demanded 
abruptly. 

“It ain’t that,” choked Runnells, “I can swim all 
right; it’s—” 

“It was just a matter of whether your body would 
be washed up on the shore, which would be equally as 
bad as though the boat stranded there for the edifica¬ 
tion of our friend Locke,” drawled Captain Francis 
Newcombe. “But since you can swim that far, and 
since the boat’s got to sink, let her sink here in deep 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 291 

water where she w r on’t keep anybody awake at night 
wondering about her—or us. Stop the engine again!” 

“But the luggage,” said Runnels, “I—” 

“It will sink out of sight quite readily, but run a 
rope through the handles and lash the stuff to the boat 
so it won’t drift ashore—yes, and anything else that’s 
loose!” said Captain Francis Newcombe tersely. “I 
can’t swim a quarter of a mile with portmanteaus! 
Stop the engine!” 

“Strike me pink!” said Runnells faintly, as he obeyed 
and again stumbled forward to the luggage. 

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down and began to 
unlace his boots. The water was nearly level with the 
bottom of the seat. 

“Hurry up, Runnells!” he called. 

“It’s all right,” said Runnells after a moment. 

“Take your boots off then, and sling them around 
your neck,” ordered Captain Francis Newcombe. 

“Yes,” said Runnells. 

Captain Francis Newcombe stood up and divested 
himself of a light raincoat he had been wearing. From 
the skirt of the garment he ripped off a generous por¬ 
tion, and, taking out his revolver and flashlight, 
wrapped them around and around with the waterproof 
cloth. The coat itself he thrust into an already water- 
filled locker under the seat where it could not float 
away. 

“Ready, Runnells?” he inquired. 

“Yes,” said Runnells. 

“Come on, then,” said Captain Francis Newcombe. 

The gunwale was awash as he struck out. A dozen 
strokes away, as he looked back, the boat had disap¬ 
peared. He cursed sullenly under his breath—then 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


292 

laughed defiantly. It would take more than that to 
beat Shadow Varne. 

Runnells swam steadily at his side. 

Presently they stepped out on the shore. 

Captain Francis Newcombe stared up and down the 
beach, as he seated himself on the sand and began to 
pull on his boots. 

“We’re a bit off our bearings, Runnells,” he said. 
“I couldn’t see any sign of the boathouse even when I 
was swimming in. And I can’t see it now. Which 
way do you think it is?” 

Runnells was also struggling with his wet boots. 

“We’re too far up,” he answered. “I thought I had 
it about right, but I figured that if I didn’t quite hit it, 
it would be safer to be on this side than the other so 
we wouldn’t have to pass either the wharf or the house 
in getting to it.” 

“Good!” commented Captain Francis Newcombe. 
“We’ll walk back that way, then.” 

They started on along the beach. For perhaps half 
a mile they walked in silence, and then, rounding a little 
point, the boathouse came into view a short distance 
ahead. A moment later they passed in under the over¬ 
hang of the verandah. 

And then Runnells snarled suddenly. 

Captain Francis Newcombe was unwrapping his 
flashlight. The faint, stray rays of moonlight that 
managed to penetrate the place did little more than 
accomplish the creation of innumerable black shadows 
of grotesque shapes. 

“What’s the matter?” he demanded. 

“The damned place in under here gives me the 
creeps after last night,” Runnells growled. 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 293 

“It’s not exactly pleasant,” admitted Captain 
Francis Newcombe casually. 

“You’re bloody well right, it ain’t!” agreed Runnells 
fervently. And then sharply, as the ray from the 
flashlight in Captain Francis Newcombe’s hand 
streamed out: “That’s where he lay last night, only the 
water’s farther out now. It’s blasted queer the thing 
never tackled the old madman in all this time.” 

“On the contrary,” said Captain Francis Newcombe, 
“it would rather indicate that the brute was a transient 
visitor.” 

“Then I hope to Gawd,” mumbled Runnells, “that 
it didn’t like the quarters well enough to stick them 
for another night.” 

“I agree with you,” laughed Captain Francis New¬ 
combe coolly; “but, as it happens, it’s low tide now 
and the water is out beyond where we are going— 
which may offer an alternative solution to old Marlin’s 
escape. However, Runnells, that’s not what we are 
looking for—we’re looking for a keyhole.” 

He led the way forward, his flashlight playing on 
the big central concrete pier, some eight feet square, 
in front of him. He was chuckling quietly to himself. 
It being established that the old maniac’s hiding place 
was here under the boathouse, a hiding place that was 
opened by a key, and that, except at low tide, was 
inaccessible, the precise location of that hiding place 
became obvious even to a child. The row of little piers 
that supported the structure at the sides and front were 
all individually too small to be hollow —and there was 
absolutely nothing else here except the big centre sup¬ 
port. 

With Runnells beside him now, he began to examine 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


294 

this centre pier under the ray of his flashlight. He 
walked once completely around it, making a quick, 
preliminary examination. The pier was some six or 
seven feet in height, and the concrete construction was 
reinforced with massive iron bands placed both hori¬ 
zontally and transversely between two and three feet 
apart, the small squares thus formed giving a sort of 
checkerboard effect to the mass. The lower portion 
was green with sea-slime. There was no apparent evi¬ 
dence of any opening. 

But Captain Francis Newcombe had not expected 
that there would be. 

“Look for a little hole, Runnells,” he said. “Any¬ 
thing, for instance, that might appear to be no more 
than a fault in the concrete. And look particularly 
above high water mark. The opening is below because 
the old man could only get in at low tide; but the key¬ 
hole is more likely to be above out of the reach of the 
water because it must be watertight inside.” 

“Yes,” said Runnells. 

They made a second circuit of the pier, but care¬ 
fully now, searching minutely over every inch of sur¬ 
face. It took a long time—a very long time—a quar¬ 
ter of an hour—a half hour—more. 

And still there was no sign of either keyhole or 
opening. 

“Strike me pink!” grumbled Runnells. “It looks 
like it was sticking to us to-night! This is what I calls 
rotten luck!” 

“And I was thinking that it was excellent—even be¬ 
yond expectations, Runnells,” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe smoothly. “The old man has done his 
work so well that it is certain no one would stumble 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 295 

on it. Therefore, when we get away, we do so with the 
absolute knowledge that an empty hiding place will 
never be discovered. You follow that, don’t you, Run- 
nells? No one except you and I will know that the 
money was ever found—or taken.” 

“Yes,” said Runnells gruffly; “but we ain’t got it yet. 
And we must have been at it a good hour already— 
and the tide’s coming back in now.” 

“Quite so!” said Captain Francis Newcombe evenly. 
“But if we don’t get it to-night, there is to-morrow 
night—and the night after that again. There are al¬ 
ways the woods, and your ability as a thief guarantees 
us plenty to eat. Meanwhile, we’ll stick to this side 
here fronting the sea—it’s the logical place—one 
couldn’t be seen even from under the verandah back 
there. Go over every bit of the iron work now.” 

Another quarter of an hour passed in silence—save 
for the lap of the water that, with the tide on the turn 
now, had crept up almost to the base of the pier. The 
flashlight moved slowly up and down and to right and 
left as the two men crouched there, bent forward, their 
fingers, augmenting the sense of sight, feeling over the 
surface of the cement and iron that here was barnacle- 
coated, and there covered with festoons of the green 
slime. 

“It’s no good!” said Runnells pessimistically at last. 
“Let’s try around on another side, and get out of the 
water—I’m standing in it now.” 

“It’s here—and nowhere else,” said Captain Francis 
Newcombe doggedly. “And, furthermore, I’m certain 
it’s one of these squares inside the intersecting pieces 
of iron. It would be just big enough to allow a man 
to crawl in and out—and not too big or too heavy for 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


296 

one man to handle alone. It can’t be anything else. 
Whatever’s here the old man made himself—no 
one helped him, understand, Runnells? His secret 
wouldn’t be worth anything in that case. Go on— 
hunt!” 

But Runnells, instead, had suddenly straightened up. 

“I thought I heard something out there like—like a 
low splashing,” he said tensely. 

Captain Francis Newcombe paid no heed. He was 
laughing, low, jubilantly, triumphantly. 

“I’ve got it, Runnells!” he cried. “Here’s a bit of 
the iron down here that moves to one side—just a little 
piece. Look! And the keyhole underneath! I was 
wrong about the keyhole being above high water—it 
isn’t, or anywhere near it—but we’ll see how the con¬ 
trivance works.” He thrust his hand into his pocket, 
brought out the bronze key, fitted it quickly into the 
keyhole, and turned it. A faint click answered him. 
“Push, Runnells, on that square just above the water— 
it’s bound to swing inward—these iron strips hide the 
joints.” 

But he did not wait for Runnells to obey his injunc¬ 
tion. He snatched the key out of the lock again, and 
even as he saw the piece of iron swing back into place 
covering the keyhole, he was pushing against the con¬ 
crete slab himself. It swung back and inward from its 
upper edge with a sort of oscillating movement. His 
flashlight bored into the opening. Clever! The old 
maniac had had the cunning of—a maniac! It was 
quite clear. Old Marlin had cut away the square and 
fitted it with a new block—yes, he could see!—the in¬ 
terior would, of course, have been flooded at high 
water while the old madman was preparing the new 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 


297 

block, but that made no difference—the place would 
always empty itself at low tide again because the floor¬ 
ing, or base, in there was on the same level as the 
lower edge of the opening—and it would be when it 
was empty of water, naturally, that the new block 
would be fitted into place—and thereafter it would 
remain empty. 

He was crawling through the opening now—the 
weight of the swinging block causing it to press against 
his shoulders, but giving way easily before his advance. 
There was just room to squeeze through. Very in¬ 
genious! The walls were a good foot to a foot and a 
half thick. The lock-bar worked through the side of 
the pier wall into the middle of the edge of the movable 
block so no water could get in that way; and the block 
when closed fitted in a series of gaskets against the 
inside of the iron bands that reinforced the outside of 
the pier, which latter, overlapping the edges of the 
block, hid any indication of an entrance from view. 
It must have taken the old fool weeks! Again Captain 
Francis Newcombe laughed. His head and shoulders 
were through now, and, with his flashlight’s ray flood¬ 
ing the interior, he could see that— 

A cry, sudden, wild, terror-stricken, from Runnells 
reached him. 

“Quick!” Runnells cried frantically. “For the love 
of Gawd make room for me—the thing*s here! Quick! 
Quick! Let me get in !” 

The thing! In a flash Captain Francis Newcombe 
wriggled the rest of his body through the opening, and, 
holding back the movable block, sent his flashlight’s 
ray streaming out through the opening. It lighted up 
Runnells’ face, contorted with fear, ashen to the lips, 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


298 

as the man came plunging along; and out beyond, it 
played on a waving, sinuous tentacle, another and an¬ 
other, groping, snatching, feeling—and from out of 
the midst of these a revolting pair of eyes, and a beak, 
horny, monstrous, in shape like a parrot’s beak. 

With a gasp Runnells came through, sprawling on 
the floor. 

The movable block swung back into place with a 
little click. 

Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders. 

“A bit of a close shave, Runnells,” he said. “I 
fancy you’re right—last night was enough to his liking 
to bring the brute back again. Rather a bore, too! 
Unless he moves off again, he’s got us penned up until 
low water.” 

“That’ll be twelve hours,” whimpered Runnells; 
“and it’ll be daylight then—and another twelve before 
we could get out when it’s dark.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe shrugged his shoulders 
again. His flashlight was playing around him. The 
hollow space here inside the pier was perhaps six feet 
square, and solid concrete, top, bottom and sides. This 
fact he absorbed subconsciously, as he reached quickly 
out now to a little shelf that had been built out from 
one side of the wall. There was a half burned candle 
here and some matches, and, lying beside these, a 
package wrapped in oiled-silk. He struck a match, 
lighted the candle, switched off his flashlight, thrust it 
into his pocket, and snatched up the package. An 
instant more and he had unwrapped it. 

And unholy laughter came, and the soul of the man 
rocked with it. It rose and fell, hollow and muffled in 
the little space where there was scarcely room for the 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 299 

two men to move without jostling one another. The 
money! He had won! It was his! Locke—Paul 
Cremarre—Scotland Yard—ha, ha! Well, they had 
pitted themselves against Shadow Varne—and Shadow 
Varne had never yet failed to get what he went after, 
in spite of man, or God, or devil—and he had not 
failed now—and he never would fail! 

He was tossing the bundles of bank notes from hand 
to hand with boastful glee. 

“This’ll buck you up a bit, Runnells!” he laughed. 
“You’ll be well paid for waiting even if it has to be 
until to-morrow night—eh, what?” 

Runnells, on his feet now, a sudden red of avarice 
burning in his cheeks, grabbed at one of the bundles, 
and began to fondle the notes with eager fingers. 

“Gawd!” he croaked hoarsely. “Thousand-dollar 
notes! Strike me pink! Gawd!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe was still laughing, but 
his eyes had narrowed now as, watching Runnells, there 
came a sudden thought. Would he need Runnells any 
more? There wasn’t any motor boat to run—but it 
was a long way in a rowboat for one man over to the 
mainland. Here in the old maniac’s hiding place— 
ideal—and a bit of irony in it too—delicious irony! 
Well, it did not require instant decision. Meanwhile 
it seemed to be strangely oppressive in here in the 
confined space. 

“It’s stuffy in here, Runnells,” he said. “Pull that 
door, or block, or whatever you like to call it, back 
a crack and freshen the place up.” 

The “door” was fitted with a light brass handle, 
similar to a handle used on a bureau drawer. Run¬ 
nells stooped, still clutching a bundle of bank notes in 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


3 °° 

one hand, and gave the handle a careless pull. The 
block did not move. He gave the handle a vicious 
tug then, but still with the same result. He dropped 
the bundle of bank notes, and used both hands. The 
block did not yield. 

“I can’t move the damned thing,” he snarled. “It 
seems to be locked.” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s voice was suddenly 
cold and hard. 

“Try again!” he said. “Here, I’ll help you! Take 
your coat off and run the sleeve, the two of them if 
you can, through the handle so we can both get hold.” 

Runnells obeyed. 

Both men pulled. 

The handle broke away from its fastenings. The 
block did not move. 

“It’s locked, I tell you,” panted Runnells. “Haven’t 
you got the key?” 

“Yes,” said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly; 
“but there’s no hidden keyhole here. It’s locked from 
the outside—a spring lock. I remember now hearing 
it click. The old man would set it so that he could get 
out, of course, every time he entered. We didn’t.” 

“Gawd!” said Runnells thickly. “What’re we going 
to do?” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s eyes studied the four 
walls and roof. He spoke more to himself than Run¬ 
nells. 

“Say, six by six by six,” he said. “Roughly, two 
hundred cubic feet. Watertight—hermetically sealed 
—no air except what’s in here now. One hundred 
cubic feet per man—short work—very short.” 


THE TIME-LOCK OF THE SEA 301 

“What do you mean?” whispered Runnells with 
whitening face—and coughed. 

“I mean that brute out there, if it still is out there, 
counts for nothing now,” said Captain Francis New- 
combe steadily. “We could at least fight that—we 
can’t fight suffocation. I’d say a very few minutes, 
Runnells, before we’re groggy if we can’t get air—I 
don’t know how long the rest of it will take.” 

Runnells screamed. His face grey, beads of sweat 
suddenly spurting from his forehead, he flung himself 
against the cement “door,” clawing with his finger 
nails, where no finger nails could grip, around the 
edges of the block. And then in maniacal frenzy he 
attacked the wall with his pocketknife. 

The blades broke. 

Captain Francis Newcombe, with a queer, set smile, 
drew his revolver, and, holding the muzzle close to 
the wall, fired. The bullet made little impression. 
With the muzzle now held over the same spot he fired 
again. 

And now he choked and coughed a little. 

The acrid fumes helped to vitiate the air. 

“You’re making it worse—my Gawd, you’re making 
it worse!” shrieked Runnells. “I can’t breathe that 
stuff into me.” 

“I prefer to be doing something, even if it’s pretty 
well a foregone conclusion that it’s useless—than sit 
on the floor and wait” Captain Francis Newcombe 
answered. “A bullet probably hasn’t the ghost of a 
chance of going through—but if a bullet won’t, noth¬ 
ing that we have got to work with will.” 

The lighted candle on the shelf began to flicker. 


THE FOUR STRAGGLERS 


3° 2 

Captain Francis Newcombe fired again—once more 
—and yet still another shot. 

Runnells moaned and staggered. He went to the 
floor, his fists beating at the wall until they bled. 

Captain Francis Newcombe watched the candle. 

The minutes passed. 

The light grew dim. 

Captain Francis Newcombe sat down on the floor. 

A strange coughing, a mingling of choking sounds. 

The candle flickered and went out. 

Captain Francis Newcombe spoke. There was 
something debonair in his voice in spite of its laboured 
utterance: 

“The house divided, Runnells. Do you remember 
that night in the thicket?” 

There was no answer. 

Again Captain Francis Newcombe spoke: 

“I’ve saved two shots. Will you have one, Run¬ 
nells? Suffocation’s a rotten way to go out.” 

“No!” Runnells screamed. “No, no—my Gawd— 
no!” 

Captain Francis Newcombe’s laugh was choked and 
gasping. 

“You always were a stinking coward, Runnells,” he 
said. “Well, suit yourself.” 

The tongue flame of a revolver lanced through the 
blackness. 

Runnells screamed and screamed again. Sprawling 
on the floor, his hand fell upon the package of bank 
notes he had dropped there. He tore at them now in 
his raving, tore them to pieces, tore arid tore and tore 
—and screamed. 


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